
iC2 



CopyrightN"_L3jjJl 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 




Little Jake." 



Songs AND Stories 



FROM 



TENNESSEE. 



BV / 



JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE, 

AUTHOR OF " A SUMMER HYMNAL." 



ILLUSTRATED BY HOWARD WEEDEN 
AND ROBERT DICKEY. 



PHILADELPHIA: 

HENRY T. COAXES & CO., 
1903. 






DLAS*« ^ XXc No. 

i^ 7 ^ /f vT , 

OOPY 9. 






copyrig^ht, 1897, by 
John Trotwood Moore. 



Copyright, 1902, by 
Henry T. Coaxes & Co. 



PREFACE. 



'T^HIS is a very large world, and so I have not 
-■■ tried to cover, in this little book, any very 
great portion of it ; but have contented myself 
in a faithful endeavor to describe, truthfully, life 
as it has been, and is, in the Middle Basin of 
Tennessee — the Blue Grass Plot of the State. 

And this spot is rich in history and tradition — 
so rich that for years I fretted because no gifted 
one of its citizens would arise and tell to the 
world, in story and in song, the earnest life, the 
sweet simplicity, the matchless beauty, the un- 
published glory of its land and its folk. And 
when none arose, week after week, without a 
thought that what was hastily written for an 
obscure department of a country paper would 
be found worthy of compilation, I have only 
attempted to do what a greater one should have 

done. 

iii 



Preface 

To those who will read this book, the author 
begs them to bear in mind that he does not claim 
for these little peoples of his brain any great 
amount of genius or originality. But he does 
claim that, though decked in homespun and 
homeliness, they are the faithful little children of 
their own bright land, the truthful representa- 
tives of the one dear spot, fresh from the fields 
and the forests, the paddocks and the pens of the 
Middle Basin. 

It is customary with some authors to dedicate 
their books to others. To my father. Judge 
John Moore, and my mother, Emily Adelia Bil- 
lingslea, both of whom yet live in the old home 
at Marion, Alabama, I dedicate this, an un- 
finished tribute of my love and honor, a half- 
expressed token of the gratitude I owe them. 

JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE. 



IV 



CONTENTS. 



\| 



The Basin of Tennessee, . 

Ole Mistis, 

Miss Kitty's Fun'ral, . 

The Wolf Hunt on Big Bigby, . 

Gray Gamma, .... 

The Mule Race at Ashwood, 

The Tennessee Girl and the Pacing Mare, 

"Dick," . . 

Nora, 

The Spelling Match at Big Sandy, 
How Robert J. Broke the Record, 
How Old Wash Sold the Filly, . 
How Old Wash Captured a Gun, 
Br'er Washington's Arraignment, 
^*fe A Cavalry Drill in Old Tennessee, 
The True Singer, 

How the Bishop Broke the Record, 
First Monday in Tennessee, 
Yesterday, .... 
The Juliet of the Grasses, . 
Hal Pointer on Memorial Day, 
Sam Davis, 

The Lily of Fort Custer, . 
The Flag of Green's Brigade, 
By the Little Big-Horn, . 

V 



PAGE 

I 
10 

48 
78 

86 

98 

103 

no 

131 

138 
144 
149 
157 

163 

175 
191 
194 

202 
214 
217 
224 
231 
240 
256 
258 



Contents 



PAGE 



Thoroughbreds, . . . . . . . .261 

*' Wearing the Gray," 265 

The Bells of Atlanta 267 

The Tennesseean to the Flag, 272 

Tennessee, 274 

To a Wild Rose on an Indian Grave, . . . 279 

The Blue-Grass Plot, 281 

To a Sweet Pea, • . 283 

The Hills, 284 

To a Mocking-Bird in the Pine-Top, .... 286 

A Harvest Song, 289 

The Old Meadow Spring, 291 

Sleeping, 293 

To the Spirit of May, 294 

Clouds, 296 

Sunset on the Tennessee, 296 

Morning, 297 

Under the Pines, 298 

The Music of the Pines, 299 

The Evening Star, 302 

To a Morning Glory, 302 

The Summer of Long Ago, 303 

Truth in Beauty, . . . . . . .305 

The Faith of Old, ' .307 

Christmas Morn, 309 

Alone, 309 

To Whittier, Dead, . . ... . . .310 

The Church of the Heart, 311 

The Christ-Star has Risen, 312 

A Memory, 313 

vi 



Contents 



PAGE 



Eulalee, 314 

A Morning Ride, 314 

Immortality, 316 

Life's Cliristmas, ....... 317 

Beauty, 318 

It Can Not Be, 319 

A Little Cry in tlie Night, ...... 320 

*Tis But a Dream, . . . . . . .321 

The Pines of Monterey, ...... 322 

To an American Boy, ....... 323 

Our Bob, 324 

To Burns, , . . 325 

Work Through it All, ..,.,. 326 

Mollie, 327 

O Voices that Long Ago Left Me, .... 328 

A Ray from Calvary, ...... 329 

Marjorie, 329 

Blue Jay, 332 

Success, 335 

When the Colts are in the Ring, .... 336 

Fair Times in Old Tennessee, . . , . . 338 

The Rabbit Trap, ....... 339 

•' Huntin' 0' the Quail," 341 

When de Fat am on de Possum, .... 344 

Little Sam, ' • • 345 

Lettie, 347 

The Old Plantation, 349 

Reconciliation, . . . . . . . .351 

Longin' fur Tennessee, 352 

Wonderful Men, 355 

vii 



INTRODUCTION. 



THE BASIN OF TENNESSEE. 

THE Middle Basin is the dimple of the Uni- 
verse. 

About equal in area to Lake Ontario — nearly 
6000 square miles — situated in Middle Tennessee 
and surrounded by the Highland Rim, it is one 
of those peculiar geological formations made long 
ago when the earth was young. In altitude, but 
little higher than the first plateau beyond the 
Mississippi ; in shape, oval and symmetrical as 
the tapering turn of an egg shell cut lengthwise ; 
in depth, from 500 to 1000 feet — deep enough to 
break the force of the wind, and yet high enough 
to concentrate, as by a focus, the slanting sun- 
beams and the shadows. 

Away back in the past it was once the bed of 
a silver shining lake. But whether its waves 
boiled beneath a torrid sun, lashed into foam by 
saurian battles, or whether glacial icebergs sunk 
their crystal pillars in its depths and lifted their 
diamond-turreted peaks to the steel-cold stars of 
an unanswering heaven, no one will ever know. 

And what became of it ? We shall never 
know. Perhaps an earthquake rent its natural 
levees, and it fled with the Cumberland or the 
I I 



Songs and Stories 

Tennessee to the gulf. Perhaps the mighty Mis- 
sissippi brushed with his rough waves too closely 
to the western border of our calm lake one day, 
and she went with him, a willing captive, to the 
sea. Or, she may have passed out down the 
dark channels of some mammoth cave whose 
caverns have never yet heard the sound of 
human voice — we know not. All we know is, 
the lake was here — the lake is gone. Time is 
long. 

The mound-builders were not here then, for 
they have dotted its fertile basin with a thousand 
voiceless monuments of a voiceless age. Time is 
long. The lake was here — the lake is gone. 

But when it went, it left the sweet richness of 
its farewell kiss upon the lips of our valleys, and 
the fullness of its parting tears on the cheeks of 
our hills. It made the loam and the land, the 
spirit and the springs, the creeks and the cream 
of the Middle Basin of Tennessee — the Blue 
Grass Plot of the State 

An animal is the product of the environments 
that surround him — the blossom of the soil upon 
which he lives. He is part of the sunlight and 
the grass, the rock and the water, the grain and 
the gravel, the air which he breathes and the 
ant-hill which he crushes beneath his feet. Man 
is the highest animal. Then behold the man of 
the Middle Basin, the highest development of the 
animal creation : Jackson, Crockett, Houston, 



from Tennessee 

Bell, Polk, Gentry, Maury, Forrest — these and 
thousands of others whose names and fame are 
fadeless. 

The life of man is what he makes it ; and of 
a state what man makes it. And so, in the course 
of time, the two become as one—the men become 
the state while the state is ever but its men. 
Character is what we are ; reputation is what we 
are supposed to be, 'tis said. A history of the 
Middle Basin, then, is but a record of the char- 
acter of the people who have lived and died there. 
If she did great things in the past, it was because 
she had great characters in the past. The wis- 
dom of those ancient Greeks who taught their 
children that they were descended from the gods 
is to be admired ; had they not, I doubt if the 
Greeks had acted like the gods, as they did when 
they met the Persians at Thermopylae and Sala- 
mis, and, even that far back, made the story of 
the Middle Basin a possibility. 

Our ideals, at last, are the true gauges of our 
characters, and the higher we rear these castles 
in the air, the loftier will our own soul-dwellings 
be. Let us build our characters as we would our 
castles, alike beyond the reach of those who 
climb and those who throw. For the ideal and 
the real go together. The dream must precede 
the chisel, the vision be father to the brush, the 
thought to the pen. 

Briefly stated, our forefathers of the Middle 
3 



Songs and Stories 

Basin came from North Carolina and Virginia, 
and when they came over the mountain they 
brought its granite with them. 

Mountains and hills have always produced 
genius and liberty. There is a divine spirit that 
dwells in the rarefied air of hill-tops, that is 
incompatible with ease, with slavery and with 
sloth. It seems to permeate the souls of those 
who breathe it, to lift them above the sordidness 
of that wealth which accumlates in the valleys 
but for decay. 

Andrew Jackson was their type and, like him, 
their deeds will live forever. 

Down the long aisle of the centuries to the 

organ notes of fame 
Stalks a silent figure hallowed in the light 

of glory's name ; 
Stalks a grand, majestic manhood to those 

eon fields to be, 
A spiritual pyramid in the land of memory. 

And if we cannot prove that we are descended 
from the gods, we can at least demonstrate that 
we are the children of god-like men and women 
— and that is better. 

Years have passed and yet the Middle Basin is 

as rich and beautiful to-day, in the green dressing 

of autumn's after grasses, as she was on that 

memorable day, years ago, when Hood's army, 

4 



from Tennessee 

on its march to Nashville, came thundering with 
thirty-five thousand men over Sand Mountain 
from the bloody fields around Atlanta. The 
Tennessee troops, as a guard of honor, led the 
advance. For days they marched among the 
*'old red hills of Georgia," the pines of North 
Alabama and the black-jacks of the Highland 
Rim. But suddenly, as they wheeled in on the 
plateau beyond Mt. Pleasant, a beautiful picture 
burst on their view. Below them, like a vision, 
lay the border land of the Middle Basin — a sea 
of green and golden ; green, for the trough of the 
land waves, somber in the setting sun, had taken 
on the emerald hues of the pasture grasses ; 
golden, for the swelling hills, where rolled the 
woodlands, were studded with the bright gold 
foliage of autumn leaves, nipped by the early 
frosts. Farm house and fences, orchards and 
open field, meadow and meandering streams, 
newly plowed wheat fields and rustling rows of 
trembling corn, all basking in the quiet glory of 
mellow sunlight, formed a picture so restful to 
the eye of the tired soldier and so sweet and 
soothing to the homesick heart, that involuntarily 
his old slouched hat came off, his musket shifted 
to ''present arms," and a genuine rebel yell 
rolled from regiment to regiment, from brigade to 
brigade, as this splendid master-piece of nature 
unfolded before them. 

** Have we struck the enemy's picket already?" 
5 



Songs and Stories 

asked the thoughtful Hood, now thoroughly 
aroused and his keen eyes taking on the flash 
of battle. 

**No, General, but we've struck God's coun- 
try," shouted a ragged soldier present, as he 
saluted and joined in swelling the volume of the 
reverberating yell. 

Even the gallant Cleburne, Honor's own 
soldier, the man whose matchless brigade a year 
before, at the retreat from Chickamauga, had 
stopped Grant's whole army at Ringgold Gap, 
tipped a soldier's salute to the quiet church-yard 
at Ashwood, and expressed the wish, if he fell in 
the coming battle, he might sleep his last sleep 
there. Prophetic wish ! With thirteen other 
field officers he fell, a few days afterward, around 
the bloody breastworks of Franklin, and yielded 
up his life *'as a holocaust to his country's 
cause." 

But even War — the cloven-footed curse that 
he is — could not blanch her cheek save for a 
moment, and as soon as the last echo of his tread 
had died away, she aroused again to life, with a 
wreath of emerald on her brow, the blush of the 
clover blossoms on her cheek, the sparkle of her 
own bright springs in her eye, and the song of 
the reaper in her ear. 

Upon the knolls where cannon hurled 
Their deadly grape between, 
6 



from Tennessee 

The stately locusts have unfurled 
Their flag of white and green. 

And o*er the ridge upon the crest 

Where gleamed the flashing blade, 

The serried rows of corn, abreast 
Stand out on dress parade. 

Adown the slope where once did reel 

The stubborn ranks of gray, 
Now speeds the flying reaper's wheel — 

Now charge the ranks of bay. 
And down the vale where marched the blue 

With band and banner fine. 
The frisky lambs in ranks of two 

Deploy their skirmish line. 

And so is she rich in climate and in soil ; but 
richer far in the memory of heroic men — in lives 
that shall live and a beauty that shall never die: 

O, the glorious Middle Basin, 

The rose in Nature's wreath ! 
With her purpling sky and her hills on high 

And her blue grass underneath. 
'Tis here our fathers built their homes, 
'Tis here their sons are free — 
For the fairest land 
From God's own hand 
Is the Basin of Tennessee. 
7 



Songs and Stories 

O, the fertile Middle Basin ! 

Proud Egypt's threshing floor 
Held not in the chain of her golden grain 

Such fields as lie at our door. 
Our daughters grow like olive plants 
Our sons lil<e the young oak tree — 
For the richest land 
From God's own hand 
Is the Basin of Tennessee. 



O, the joyous Middle Basin, 

Land of the mocking-bird ! 
Where the flying feet of our horses fleet 

In front of the race are heard. 
They get their gameness from our soil, 
Their spirit will ever be — 
For the merriest land 
From God's own hand 
Is the Basin of Tennessee, 

O, the loyal Middle Basin ! 

So quick for fife and drum ! 
She stood in the breach on the cresent beach 

When the hated foe had come. 
Her Jackson made our nation safe. 
Her Polk an Empire free — 
For the truest land 
From God's own hand 
Is the Basin of Tennessee. 
8 



from Tennessee 

O, the glorious Middle Basin ! 
Can we be false to thee ? 
Sweet land where the earth and the sky 
give birth 
To the spirit of Liberty ! 
Not while our maids have virtue, 
Not while our sons are free— 
For the fairest land 
From God's own hand 
Is the Basin of Tennessee. 



Songs and Stories 



OLE MISTIS. 

A BRIGHT, sunny morning, about fifty years 
ago, in a valley of the Middle Basin of 
Tennessee. A handsome brick residence, with 
sturdy pillars and flanking galleries, on a grassy 
knoll that slopes up from a winding pike. Barns, 
whitewashed and clean as a sanded kitchen floor ; 
fences, shining in long lines in the hazy, spring 
sunlight ; orchards, in bloom and leaf ; wheat- 
fields, stretching away in billowy freshness, turn- 
ing now to amber, now to emerald, as the west 
wind laughed across them. Further on, a 
meadow, dotted with sheep and cattle, while 
nearer the house, and to the right, a narrower 
meadow of bluegrass, through which merrily 
leaped a sparkling branch whose source was in a 
large stone dairy near the house. This meadow 
had been divided into paddock after paddock, 
each containing a handsome mare or two, with 
foal at her side. 

This is the home of Col. James Dinwiddle, the 
courtliest gentleman, best farmer, kindest friend, 
most relentless enemy, most charitable neighbor, 

lO 



from Tennessee 

nerviest gambler, and owner of some of the best 
race horses in Tennessee. 

'' Horse racing," he has said a hundred times, 
"is the sport of the gods. A man must breed 
horses twenty or thirty years and have his an- 
cestors do the same, too, before he can become 
an all around gentleman. The proper study of 
mankind, sir — with due respect to Alexander 
Pope — is horsekind. Gambling on horse races is 
wrong — of course it is, sir. It's wrong just like 
it's wrong to gamble on the price of wheat or 
corn, or city lots, or to raffle off cakes and quilts 
at church festivals, or to run up a bill at your 
grocer's when the chances are ten to one you'll 
never pay it — wrong, all wrong, sir. But how 
are you going to stop it 1 I, for one, shall not try. 
The Dinwiddies can show ten generations of 
gentlemen, sir, and not a single hypocrite " — and 
he would invite you out to a paddock to see a 
stallion he had lately imported from England. 
**The winner of the Derby, sir," he would add 
as he looked him critically over ; *' the winner of 
the Derby, while kings and princesses looked on 
in admiration and delight." 

The day wears dreamily on, being one of those 
spring days when wanton May, coquetting both 
with April and June, varies her moods to suit 
each ardent wooer. Everything is busy grow- 
ing — too busy to attend to anything but its own 
affairs. Even Brutus, the Colonel's negro jockey, 



Songs and Stories 

was rubbing with more than usual attention a 
magnificent blood-like gray mare half covered 
with a costly all-wool blanket, on which the 
Dinwiddle monogram was stitched in red silk. 
In the clean, newly-swept hallway she stood, 
impatiently enough, with the cooling bridle on, 
her keen ears now flashing forward, as some ob- 
ject attracted her attention in front, now laid 
back threateningly on her neck as the vigorous 
jockey rubbed too ardently her steaming sides — 
for he had just given her her morning work-out — 
and champing incessantly the bright round 
snaffle-bit in the loosely-fitting head stall. An 
imp of a darkey, twelve or fifteen years old, 
small, wiry, with quick, sharp eyes, sits just out 
of reach of the mare's heels on an upturned peck 
measure, and watches like a cat every movement 
of the deft rubber. 

Jake, as his name went, was a privileged char- 
acter. '^ The mascot of the barn,'' as the Colo- 
nel called him, ** and we can't get along without 
him — him and the rat terrier. Just watch them, 
Brutus," he had said only yesterday to the new 
jockey he had lately imported from New Orleans 
to ride his horses and superintend his stable, '' and 
don't let them go to sleep in the stall with Old 
Mistis or get too near the mare's heels. With 
any of the other horses it makes little difference. 
My luck would desert me if either of them got 
hurt." 

12 



from Tennessee 

To-day Jake was taking his first opportunity 
to tell the new jockey all he knew. 

** You gotter be mighty keerful dar, wid Ole 
Mistis," he said, as the mare raised a hind foot 
threateningly from a too careless stroke of the 
rubber, ** mighty keerful. She's er oncommon 
kuis mair an' wuf all de res' ob de string. Didn't 
ole Marster tell you you mustn't nurver try to 
rub her off 'twellyou's fust cleaned off her face 
— -de berry op'site from eny yuther hoss ? He 
ain't ? Wal, it's a good thing I tole you, or you'd 
er bin kicked ober de barn ! An' didn't he tell 
you erbout de warterin' ob her, dat she didn't 
drink spring warter like de yuthers, but you had 
to warter her outen de cistern whar de white 
folks drinks ? He ain't ? Wal, you jes' try her 
now. She'll die ob thirstivashun afore she'll 
drink a drap unless it cums outen de cistern. I'm 
de onliest one dat understan's dis mair, an' dat's 
er fac," said the imp, as he arose from his im- 
provised seat and ran a hand down into a jean 
pocket where he had stored away a bright carrot. 
Slipping carelessly under the ma'-e's flank, before 
the jockey could stop him, he bobbed up suddenly 
under her nose and presented to her the rich 
vegetable, exclaiming: ''Heah, you gray ghost, 
faster'n greased lightnin' down er skinned syc- 
ermore, an' meaner'n de debil to his muddern- 
law — take dis !" and the bit stopped rattling in 
her nervous jaws as she proceeded to devour the 
13 



Songs and Stories 

carrot, after which she whinnied and then rubbed 
her nose affectionately on a closely cropped, 
woolly head, with every sign of satisfaction. 
*' Take me outer dis heah barn," remarked the 
little darkey pompously, as he strolled back to 
his seat, catching the mare playfully by the tail 
as he passed, ^' an' dis mair would kill sum nigger 
befo' night. I'm de onliest one dat understan's 
her, an' ole Marster '11 tell you so. Didn't he 
nurver tell you how I made Ole Mistis win de ten 
t'ousan' dollars at de big race las' spring ? He 
ain't ? Wal, he mayn't tole it to you, but I've 
heurd 'im tell it to de guv'ners, majahs an' jedges 
dat visits him, when dey sets out in^ de frunt 
peazzer an' smokes at night, an' dey nearly die 
laffm'. 'Sides dat, it's bin rit in de papers, mun ! 
** You see we got holt of er fool heah las' year 
dat thout de way ter train bosses wus ter beat 
'em. We didn't kno' he wus dat way at de time 
or we wouldn't er hi'ed 'im. We b'leeves in 
kindness heah ; we don't beat noboddy 'cept dey 
b'leeged ter have it — noboddy but my mammy, 
Aunt Fereby, de cook. She beats me nigh ter 
death sumtimes, 'kase I'm her onliest chile an' 
she's tryin' ter raise me right, an' Marster says 
he 'lows it 'kase she's de onliest one on de place 
dat knows dey've got de genuwine religun. Wal, 
dis fellow we got, tried ter train Ole Mistis dar, 
an' lacter ruined her. She won't take no beatin'. 
No, siree ; why, man, dat mair's by Sir Archie, 
14 



from Tennessee 

fus' dam by Bosting, secun' dam by Diermeed, 
third dam by Flyin' Childen, fourth dam by 
'Merican 'Clipse, an' so on fur twenty mo' — I've 
heard ole Marster tell it er hunded times. Wal, 
de end ob it wus we jes' had de oberseer gib dat 
nigger a cow-hidin' and saunt him erway ; an' 
we turned Ole Mistis out on de frunt lawn to try 
an' furgit it. An' dat's whar I fell in lub wid 
her. I ain't got nuffm' ter do but to tote de 
kitchin wood in fer mammy, an' I uster go out 
dar an' feed Ole Mistis apples an' sech lak, an' 
one day Marster tried 'er agin on de track, wid 
me dar to be wid 'er, an' she run lak a skeered 
deer wid de houns at her heels. Ole Marster 
laf an' say, ' By de eternal ! but dat boy am a 
reg'Iar muscat — he bring me good luck !' and 
he twell 'em to take me to de big race wid 'em 
at Nashville de nex' month. Jiminy ! But didn't 
we hab a good time on de road ? We hitched up 
de fo' mule team an' put all our things in an' 
went 'long in style. Ole Marster went 'long in de 
kerridge wid Mis' Anne — dat's de young mistis — 
an' Cap'n Sidney— dat's her bow — I hates dat 
white man, he's so mean — an' we eben carry de 
borrow an' de big pair Devum steers to pull it. 
* What you gwine carry dis borrow fur an' dis ox 
team, Kunnel ?' said de Sidney man when we 
started. * Bekase, sah,' said ole Marster, * my 
bosses can't run ober pavements, an' dat's whut 
dey had to do de las' time 1 wus dar. Dat crowd 
15 



Songs and Stories 

up dar too stingy to keep de tracks borrowed, 
sah/ an' we all went on. Wal, sah, I slep' in 
de stall wid Ole Mistis ebry night an' she nurver 
tromped on me nary time. De mornin' ob de 
race dar wus de bigges' crowd I eber seen. 
*Twas down in de ole clober bottom, whar dey 
say Gineral Jackson useter race ; an' bright an' 
early ole Marster rid out to de stable on de track 
an' tell de head jockey to hook up de par of 
Devum steers to de borrow an' make me bor- 
row de track for Ole Mistis — an' den he rid off 
sum'ers. Dey put me on de off steer an' gin 
me a big stick, an' I went 'roun' an' 'roun' dat 
track twell I got mighty tired. An' dey guyed 
me an' hollered at me up at de gran' stan'. An' 
one man laffed an' hollered to sum mo' dar in er 
little stan' by deyself an' said, * Time 'em, 
gineral, ef dey ain't goin' too fas' fur yore 
watch,' an' den dey all look at me an' de two 
steers an' laf. * But,' thinks I to myself, *ebry 
man gotter start at de bottom ef he 'specks to 
rise, an', dough I'm gwine 'roun' on a steer now, 
dey am good ones, an' dese folks will yet lib to 
see me go 'roun' on dis track on de bes' piece 
ob boss flesh dat eber stood on iron.' I kin stan' 
white folks laffm' at me, but de nex' time I cum 
'roun' dar wus some little niggers laffm' an' 
throwin' clods, an' it made my blood bile. 
Torectly one on 'em got up clos' to me an' I 
hauled off an' fotch 'im a whack on de head wid 
i6 



from Tennessee 

my stick, but de nex' one I hit I missed, an' hit 
de ox on de tip ob his big horn an' knocked de 
shell off clear down to his head. Wal, when ole 
Marster cum he was sho' mad, 'kase he thout a 
heap ob de steers, an' it sp'iled de match to have 
one on 'em wid de horn off, an' he ax' de jockey, 
*who dun it?' An' de jockey said, *Ax Jake.' 
An' he ax me whut I do hit fur, an' he wouldn't 
b'leeve me when I tole him 'bout de little nig- 
gers, an' he took his ridin' whip an' started to 
lambas' me. But it was den prutty nigh time to 
race an' he changed his mind an' said : ' No ; I 
won't whip you ; you won't mind dat ; but I'll 
hurt you wusser — I'll lock you up in de stable 
an' you shan't see Ole Mistis run her race.' 

**Wal, sah, dat lacter kill me. I beg 'im to 
gib me a good 'un but let me see de race ! I 
cried an' I hollered, but ole Marster had 'em shut 
me up an' lock me in an' dar I wus. Wal, de 
crowd guthered an' de ban' played an' de bosses 
cum out, an' I looked through de crack an' seed 
Ole Mistis wid our colors up an' eb'rybody 
hoorayin', an' I jes' couldn't stan' it ! I knowed 
ole Marster wus busy an' he'd forgot all erbout 
me an' I jes' dug out dat stable like a rat, an' 
slipped up to de three-quarter pole whar de 
bosses cum doun fur de wurd. Wal, sah, you 
orter seed dat race ; hit wus a corker ef dey 
eber wus one. I furgot I wus erlive — I seemed 
to be in ernuther wurld — I didn't think ob the 
17 



Songs and Stories 

Devum steers no mo' — 'twus glory hallieluyar, 
cinnerman bark an' pep'mint candy, two circuses 
an' er watermelon patch, moonshine and heabenly 
angels, an' I turned er summerset,'! felt so good, 
an' hollered to de common niggers* erround me es 
loud es I could : ' Look at Ole Mistis ! Look at 
Ole Mistis ! Jes' lookit my mair !' An' jes' 'bout 
den dey cum 'roun' doun our way an' ernudder 
boss shot by Ole Mistis an' de niggers all laf an' 
holler, * Whar am Ole Mistis now ?' an' hit made 
me so mad I jumped on de fense an' jes' es de 
mair cum by I hollered at 'er wid all my might : 
* Look out, Ole Mistis ! Look out, Ole Mistis ! 
Look out ! Fur Gord sake run 1' An' fo' good- 
ness she heurd me for she jes' collared dat boss 
an' went by 'im lak he wus hitched to de 
gyardin palins. An' when I seed she bed beat 
'im I jes' turned summersets all ober de groun' 
an' walk on my ban's an' h'ist my feet under 
dem common niggers' noses. An' ebery time I 
turn er summerset an' kick my feet I sing : 

Possum up de gum stump, 

Fat hog in de waller — 
Ole Mistis gin herself a hump 

An' beat 'em all to holler ! 

O my Ole Mistis ! My Ole Mistis ! 

Whar you gwine ? Whar you gwine ? 
O my Ole Mistis ! My Ole Mistis ! 

You kno' you ain't ha'f tryin' ! 
i8 



from Tennessee 

**An' den I riz an' turned ernudder summer- 
set an' cracked my heels in de air, an' gin 'em 
ernudder one 'kase I was so happy : 

Jay-bird took de hoopin' coff, 

Kildee took de measle, 
Ole Mistis took de money off — 

Pop goes de weasel ! 

O my Ole Mistis ! My Ole Mistis ! 

Whar you gwine ? Whar you gwine ? 
O my Ole Mistis ! My Ole Mistis ! 

You kno' you ain't ha'f tryin' ! 

** But when I riz de nex' time I liked ter drap in 
my tracks! Dar stood ole Marster and 'er whole 
crowd er gemmens lookin' at me an' laffin', an' 
when he seed I seed 'im he cum tendin' like he 
wus mighty mad, an' sez : ' You imp of a nigger ! 
Whutyou cum outen dat stall fur ? I'm er good 
min' ter flay you erlive !' An' I drapped on de 
grass at his feet an' sed : ' Ole Marster, kill me — 
beat me to def ! I kno' I desarves it, but I've 
seed de bes' boss race in de wurl, an' Ole Mistis 
has won it. Thang God ! I'm reddy to go 1' An' 
whut you reckon he dun, nigger ? Ole Marster ! 
Right dar in dat crowd 1 He jes ' pull out er ten 
dollar gold piece, an' laf an' sed: *Heah, you 
little rascal ! Ef dat mair hadn't heurd you er 
hollerin' on de fence I don't b'leeve she'd eber 
19 



Songs and Stories 

made dat spurt an' won de race.' An' de folks 
all 'roun' sed de same thing. * Take dis money,' 
he sed. ' Now, go an' help rub her off 1' Fur er 
fac' he did." 

" Jake-e-e ! Oh, Jake !" came a terrific voice 
from the back porch. A glance by Brutus showed 
that it emanated from the center of a dark, moon- 
like object which appeared to be an eclipse, for a 
deep circle of red bandanna — not unlike the rays 
of the sun creeping over its edges — shone over 
the northern hemisphere. Beneath this cropped 
out a tuft of corded hair, not unlike the peaks of 
a lunar mountain. The moon was evidently in 
a state of activity, however, for from Brutus' 
distance the terrific '*Jake-e! Oh, Jake-e!" which 
continued to pour steadily forth seemed to come 
out of a volcanic pit, situated near the southern 
extremity of the satellite. The sphere seemed 
poised on an object, which, from the barn door, 
was not unlike a mountain weighing some three 
hundred pounds and decked in a blue checked 
homespun, girdled around the center with a string. 
At the sound of the voice — for such it was, and it 
came from Aunt Fereby, the cook — the small 
braggart ceased his narration as suddenly as if he 
had met the fate of Ananias. The fat person in 
the porch became greatly excited. Shading her 
eyes with a hand covered with biscuit dough, she 
looked intently at the barn door, as if it were the 
object of her wrath, and screamed : 

20 



from Tennessee 

** Don't you heah me callin' you, yer raskill ?" 

*'Unc' Brutus," said the small person, now 
considerably rattled, " is dat mammy callin' me ?" 

''You kno' it is," said Brutus, as he went on 
with his rubbing, while the virago still held her 
hand over her eyes with a look of vengeance 
there. 

''What am she doin' now ?" asked the tamer 
of oxen, in the hallway ; " eny thing 'cept hol- 
lerin' ?" 

" She's gethered up her cloze to her knees," 
said Brutus, as he glanced up, " an' she's cum- 
min' t'words de barn wid 'er brush-broom in her 
ban's. You'd better git," he added significantly. 

But Jakey needed not this admonition. He 
had already departed at the rear door of the barn. 
However, he called back : " Unc' Brutus, don't 
forgit ter soak de bandages in arnica water afore 
you put 'em on Ole Mistis' legs. You kno' — " 

*' You git !" said Brutus, picking up a stout 
cob. " Git ! Does de ole rider like me want eny 
tellin' from a kid of yore stripe?" But Jake had 
already hurried out of the rear of the barn, in- 
tending to keep on down the rock fence and turn 
up suddenly in the kitchen with a bundle of 
"sage-grass" in his arms, as evidence that he had 
been on the errand on which he had been sent. 
But these tactics must have been played before, 
for the party armed with the brush-broom darted 
around the rear of the stable, instead of the front, 

21 



Sonss and Stories 



't) 



and immediately afterward the jockey rubbing 
off the gray mare heard a painful collision, fol- 
lowed by yells from Jakey, and the regular she- 
wow, shewow, shewow of the switches as the 
current was turned on. A few minutes afterward 
the mountain and moon was seen hurriedly ad- 
vancing back to the kitchen, holding her youthful 
scion by the ear, while the boy half ran, half 
jumped, with now and then a yank in the air 
from his mother to help him along, and getting 
the benefit of the after-clap — a tongue lashing. 
"Dat's de way you am," she said as he went 
along, ** spendin' yore life, an' sp'ilin' yore 
chances fur usefulness in dis wurl' an' heb'n in 
de naixt, foolin' wid dat low jockey crowd down 
dar at de barn, an' me wurryin' myself ter def 
tryin' to raise you right." (A yank.) *' Des' lak 
de good book say: *A thankles' chile am sharp- 
er'n a suppent's tooth' — (yank ! yank !) — only 
you ain't sharper 'tall — (a vigorous twist)— ain't 
sharper nuff to hide in de hay loft when you heah 
me callin' you 'stead er runnin' out dat back do' 
when you dun dat trick three times befo' an' think 
I ain't got sense nuff to kno' it ! (Yank, yank, 
yank !) But I needn't 'spec' you to do nufFm 
right — you sp'iled already. Dar ! set doun dar 
in dat cornder," she said as she gave him a fmal 
yank in the air and landed him in the kitchen 
corner, ''an'eat dat cracklin' bread I dun sabe 
fur you while you doun dar at de stable ruinin' 

22 



from Tennessee 

yore immoral soul foolin' wid race horses. An' 
what I sabe it fur you fur?" striking an attitude 
and looking at him with convincing scorn. 
**Whut fur, I say? Jes' to teach you a lesson 
frum de Bible, to let you kno' it allerscums true. 
Don't it say : * De way ob de transgressor am 
hard'? You dun foun' dat out, ain't you? Wal, 
it also says : ' Blessed am dey dat moans fur dey 
shall be cumfetted.' You dun hab you moanin', 
now be cumfetted an' thank yore stars you got a 
good mudder dat kno's how to 'terprit de scrip- 
ters," and she flung herself in a chair and pro- 
ceeded to cool off. 

Jakey accepted the interpretation of the skillet 
of crackling bread, and having dried his tears on 
his sleeves, and felt of his ear to see that it was 
still there, he fell to and proceeded to be comforted 
with a zeal bordering on religious enthusiasm. 

" But, law!" began his mammy, after a pause, 
** I can't do nuffm wid him. I heurd ole Mars- 
ter say de big race cum off soon an' he gwine 
take you erlong es a muscat. Dat's de way it 
am ; * De wicked race to dar own destrucshun.' " 

Jake stopped eating at once. *Ms dat so, 
mammy?" with a look that showed how he stood 
on the subject. 

For answer the chair was vacated in an instant 
and the brush-broom picked up. 

** Come, come, Fereby, you have whipped that 
boy enough 1" 

23 



Songs and Stories 

The cook dropped her switches and said apolo- 
getically to her master — foritwas Col. Dinwiddie 
who was passing by and spoke — '* Jes' es you say, 
Marster. I'm jes' tryin' to raise 'im right. You 
kno' what King Sollermon say: * Spare de rod an' 
spile de chile ' " — triumphantly. 

'*Yes, but a greater one than Solomon has 
said : * Blessed are the merciful ; for they shall 
obtain mercy/ Jake" — to the boy — *'go un- 
hitch my horse from the rack and take him to the 
barn," and the Colonel went on in. 

The boy went off with alarcity. ** * Blessed am 
de merciful,' he said to himself, * fur dey shall 
obtain mercy.' Dat's de bes' religun I eber 
heurd in my life. Ef all ob 'em had dat kind dar 
wouldn't be a brush-broom or a mean temper in 
de wurl," and he patted the horse on the nose 
and mounted him. Darkey like, he put him 
through all his gaits before he reached the barn. 

II. 

But although the sun shone so brightly on the 
fertile fields and splendid mansion of Col. Din- 
widdie, there was little of its sunshine in the heart 
of its owner on that May day, fifty years ago. 
With a paper in hand, near sunset, he sat out on 
his front veranda, looking dreamily and moodily 
ahead at a sloping wheat field across the pike. 
How beautiful it looked ! How the recent rains 
had brought it out, filling its golden meshes — 
24 



from Tennessee 

those chaff thatched granaries — with the product 
of the sun and soil ! Near, the big poplars in his 
own yard lifted their red and yellow wax blossoms 
to heaven or showered them on the blue grass 
carpet below. A hundred sweet fragrances filled 
the evening air, a hundred homely sounds fell 
on his ears. Among them, and dearer than all 
others, was the occasional whinny of a stately 
matron in the paddock beyond, disturbed for a 
moment because her own suckling had strolled 
off to caper and play mimic racing with some 
other mare's degenerate offspring. 

** My faculties are peculiarly acute this even- 
ing," said the master to himself, *'or else I am 
a rank coward, unable to stand misfortune. I 
never saw the old place have such a charm be- 
fore," he continued, half aloud. *' I don't mind 
giving it up so much on my own account, but 
Anne"— 

**What! father?" answered behind him, a 
voice full of sweetness. ** Did you call me ?" 
— and a beautiful girl stepped out from a bay 
window and, laying her hands affectionately on 
his shoulders, reached over and playfully kissed 
him. 

With their faces together, it would not require 
a close observer to see the striking resemblance 
between Anne Dinwiddle and her father. Left 
motherless at an early age, Anne had found in 
one parent all the love and affection usually 
25 



Songs and Stories 



'O 



given by two. Nothing could exceed the 
Colonel's tenderness and affection for his 
daughter, and nothing Anne's pride, love and 
admiration for her father. Perhaps her life with 
a masculine mind had given a stronger turn to 
her own, instead of the feminine cast and 
romantic play that might have been expected 
under other circumstances. Or, perhaps she in- 
herited it from her father — a strong, firm man 
himself — for the girl was as much known for her 
practical sense and firmness as for her matchless 
beauty. This evening, in her baby-waist gown 
of white muslin, cut low-neck, and short sleeves, 
her auburn hair gracefully coiled behind a shapely 
head and tucked in with a large mother-of-pearl 
comb, inlaid with gold, her face aglow with a 
silent happiness which bespoke another love 
within, the girl was divine, and her father drew 
her to her old place on his knee — for though 
nearly twenty she was to him the little tot of 
two years — the same he wept over in her crib 
the night after her mother was laid away forever, 
and the first great grief of his life came to break 
in on his ambition — the ambition **to breed the 
best horse that ever lived on the best farm in 
Tennessee." 

The Colonel was a man that spoke to the 

point, and of few words. In his daughter he 

found a mind in which his own sought help and 

advice. All his business was known to her. 

26 



from Tennessee 

Even many of his breeding problems he had 
tried to solve with her aid, and it was no little, 
for she had pedigrees and records at her tongue's 
end and knew the great horses of the past as 
mariners did the stars. 

** My child," said her father, bluntly, *' I have 
gambled once too often ; I am afraid I've ruined 
us," and he looked away across the wheat 
fields. 

An expression of pain came over the girl's 
strong face, but she said nothing. This one 
question of gambling on horses was the only one 
on which her father and herself had differed, and 
the look she now wore showed that at last had 
happened what she always feared would happen. 
At length she asked : 

*' How much is it ?" 

'* Forty thousand dollars " — his eyes still on 
the distant fields. 

"Can you pay it ?" in a tone which showed 
she was more afraid of her father's honor suffer- 
ing than of being left penniless herself. 

*' Not unless 1 sell the horses — " 

** Then sell them," came the quick answer. 

** And the farm," he continued. 

''Let it go, too." 

"My child," said her father, as he rested his 

eyes steadily on her face, " of course I shall if it 

comes to the worst, but — but — " and he caught 

himself stammering like a school-boy, as he 

27 



Songs and Stories 

gazed in the sweet, honest eyes of his daughter 
— ''Anne, there is another " — he stopped again, 
with a look of positive annoyance on his clear- 
cut face. The twilight shadows had fallen, the 
lamps were lit in the hall, but still the father 
broke not the silence. 

''Cur'pony! Cur'pony ! Cur'pony !" came 
from across the meadow, as the stable boy stood 
in the pasture and called up the yearlings for 
their evening meal. Around the corner of a 
neat cabin a sprightly young negro was pick- 
ing a banjo, accompanying the deep, rich notes of 
the instrument with a voice in perfect attune — 
*' Ahoo-a, an' er-who-ah — ahoo-a, an' er-who-ah 
— ahoo — ahoo," sounded the voice on the still 
evening air, and the echoing strings of the banjo 
repeated — 'ahoo — ahoo !' 

"But what, father?" at length asked the 
daughter. 

*'Why, my child," said the Colonel, awaken- 
ing from his revery, " I intended telling you 
before. I should have mentioned it, I am sure, 
several days ago, only I did so hate to do it. 
You know how it hurts me to give you up ! But 
'tis your right and privilege to hear and my duty 
to bear the message from Captain Sidney. A few 
days ago he asked me for my permission to 
approach you on a subject." 

The girl sprang up, her face crimson, her eyes 
ablaze. 

28 



from Tennessee 

**Your permission, father? He had better 
get from me some tol<en of at least a partial 
consent for him to approach you on such a 
subject ! Permission, indeed ! Father, I hate 
the man !" 

**My, my, my!" said her father, half laugh- 
ing, half astounded, **but I never saw you so 
stirred up, my darling ! Why, Sidney has been 
here every two or three weeks for a dozen years, 
is twice your age, and has actually seen you 
grow up and has never made any secret of wait- 
ing for you. Rich, handsome, jovial and actually 
worships you ! I thought you two were fine 
friends." 

'' Father ! Father !" exclaimed the girl, ** you 
do not know me ! As your guest and friend I en- 
dured Captain Sidney, and treated him courte- 
ously. But do you think a girl has no heart, no 
ears, no eyes ? I have disdained from maiden 
modesty to tell you before what your one question 
demands of me now. Would you have your 
daughter wed a man whose excesses have even 
reached the ears of as unworldly a maid as I ? 
Am I to be won by a man merely because he is 
your friend and is * rich, handsome, jovial and 
worships me,' as you say ? I do not love him — 
that is enough 1 Oh, father !" she said with 
sudden impulse, as she seated herself in* his lap 
and took his face in both her hands and laid her 
face against his, **did not my dear mother love 
29 \ 



Songs and Stories 

you ? You know what I mean — how I mean !" 
and tears rolled down from her brown eyes. 

'' By the eternal, you are right !" said the 
Colonel, as he arose hastily, with a trace of 
emotion in his own voice, *'I hadn't thought 
of that ! The scamp !" he repeated half aloud. 
*' I like him myself, but what am I? Only a 
gambler ! He is another — a gentleman — yes, a 
gentleman— but a gambler for all that ! And 
his excesses in other directions — whew ! Anne 1" 
he called, as he kissed her and started into his 
room, *'you are right — always right — always 
right. I hadn't thought of that," and the door 
closed on his form, a trifle bent, Anne thought, 
as she sank in a chair and wept from sympathy 
for her father. 

But there never was a girl like Anne Din- 
widdle. Tears did not stay with her long. She 
dismissed the Captain with a contemptuous sniff 
as she vigorously wiped her red nose and eyes, 
and then she fell to thinking with her practical 
little mind to find a way to help her father. 
Throwing an opera shawl over her head and 
rounded shoulders — for the air was chilly — she 
sat silently rocking and looking up at the stars. 
Presently the big gate at the pike shut with a 
bang and a few moments later the rhythmical 
feet of a saddle horse played a tune as they 
pattered up the gravel walk. On came the 
horseman till the animal reached the portico 
30 



from Tennessee 

where sat the silent figure in white, when he 
shied suddenly to the left. The ease with which 
the rider retained his seat showed he was accus- 
tomed to such antics from his horse, and the 
dexterity with which he pressed a knee in the 
animal's chest and whirled it about face with a 
twist of a firm hand made the girl's eyes sparkle 
with excitement. In a moment the rider had 
bounded over the railing with : 

** Hello ! Anne, is that the way you frighten 
off your beaux ? Sit out here in the dim light 
with just enough white about your head to 
frighten their horses to death, and have them 
plunging all about over your white pink and for- 
get-me-not beds }" 

*' Jim ! Jim ! How could you ?" laughed the 
girl, as she arose and shook his hand. ** Didn't 
I tell you you should not come over to-night ? 
As Uncle Jack, the carriage driver would say, 
you are a positive ' nuessence.' " 

**0, Anne," he said, with boyish enthusiasm, 
as he drew a chair up close to hers, '* I just 
couldn't stay away. I have thought of you all 
day. *Jim Wetherall,' said the old gentleman 
when he came into the lower field, where I was 
looking after the hands plowing and let them all 
go down to the spring for water and waste an 
hour idling just because I was thinking of you, 
* Jim Wetherall, if you ain't in love you are just 
a lunatic, and that's all. Why the mischief don't 
31 



Songs and Stories 

you look after your business ? And is this the 
way you let them run corn rows over a hillside, 
with such a fall as to make a gully the first hard 
rain that comes ?' 

''After supper I saddled Troup, and thinks I, 
'I'll just ride over and look at the light in her 
window/ But may you never speak to me again 
if the rascal Troup didn't turn in the gate before 
I knew it, and here I am. And, oh, Anne, if you 
only knew how I love you — " 

But Jim's mouth was stopped with a hand over 
it — which he proceeded to kiss, to the fair owner's 
chagrin, for she immediately withdrew it and 
gave the kisser a rap on the head with the other 
one. 

"Jim! Jim! Don't be a goose," she said. 
*' You don't know how sad and worried I am to- 
night," and she proceeded to tell him all her 
father's troubles. 

Jim and Anne had been playmates from early 
youth. The boy, though really a man now, had 
never concealed anything from her — not even the 
fact that he always had and always would love 
her. Anne had laughed at him in her sisterly 
way; had helped him in his studies as he grew 
up — for she had many advantages over Jim, whose 
father was an honest and well-to-do farmer. The 
boy, under her influence, had even gone to college 
and managed to graduate, but was noted more 
for his hard horse sense, as they called it, and 
32 



from Tennessee 

his frank honesty, than for any great leaning 
toward the classics or any diplomatic erudition. 
*' The only classic I want/' he said to Anne, after 
he came back home, *Ms you. When I think of 
you, Anne," he cried, *M see all the goddesses 
and nymphs and queens of old. You seem to me 
like one of those Grecian temples I read of, with 
pillars so stately and everything so perfect. You 
seem to belong to another age, so different from 
mine — so far away, and sweet and dreamy, and 
high above me, and for which my soul yearns. 
Oh, Anne, can't you love me ?" 

And Anne would laugh and tell him, ** Maybe, 
Jim, some day." And the big fellow would be 
satisfied and glad to be allowed to see her now 
and then and bide his time. 

** Forty thousand dollars is a big sum to owe," 
said the now thoughtful Jim, when Anne had told 
him all — and Jim knew by the way she spoke 
that she was silently weeping. Then she said 
softly : 

*' Jim, who could have taken such an advan- 
tage of father ? Perhaps it was fair as far as 
gambling goes, Jim, but you know how honor- 
able and fair father is, and — and — I've heard 
those kind always lose in the end, you know, 
Jim." 

Jim was silent. *'Must I really tell you, 
Anne ?" he said at length. ** Well, it is Captain 
Sidney." 

3 33 



Songs and Stories 

** Oh, Jim !'' said Anne, in astonishment, ** how 
did you know ?" 

** Never mind," he said, quietly. *Mt would 
not be altogether manly for me to tell you, Anne, 
but I know it for a certainty; besides, I've an idea 
in my head that may help us." 

'* Oh, Jim ! do, do help us — dear Jim," she said 
impulsively ; ** you are clever and know so much 
that is practical, and are so honest and kind and 
true. Oh, Jim, if you can help us I will never 
forget—" 

**Anne!" he said, catching her hand, *'God 
knows I would die for you or the Colonel, either. 
He's been the kindest, best friend I ever had. 
He's a gentleman — every inch of him — and you, 
oh, Anne, I would die if you were out of my 
life ! But," he said, suddenly checking himself, 
** please forgive me — this is no time for that. 
What a goose I am !" After a pause : " Anne, 
I'm going now. My head is too full of a plan I 
have to talk any longer. A calamity such as 
you have mentioned would simply wreck your 
and the Colonel's life — and mine, too," he added, 
slowly, **if yours was. We all have a chance 
some time in life to show what we're made of," 
he continued, ** and now is my time. And I am 
going in, heart and soul. I'll show you I'm no 
feather-bed friend, but one who can love in 
prosperity and love harder in adversity. I don't 
know what I can do — but, Anne, I'll try, for 
34 



from Tennessee 

your and the Colonel's sake — even if you marry 
another. Don't cry " — for Anne was crying 
softly — **but good night. You will hear from me 
again," and the brave fellow was in the saddle. 

*Mim ?" 

The horse was spurred up close under the 
balcony. 

*Mim ?" 

And the golden head bent over the railing till 
the red lips touched his ear, and the smell of her 
•perfumed hair seemed to the bewildered Jim like 
the glory of the fragrant locks of all the god- 
desses of ancient Greece. 

"Jim, dear Jim ! I — I — think — I — love — you 
— now. Good night!" And she was gone, 
while Jim sat in mute silence and inexpressible 
happiness, looking up in the eyes of two stars 
that twinkled above where her own had just 
been. And looking, Jim wondered whether he 
was really alive on horseback, or was only a spirit 
of joy winging its way to the two stars which 
shone above him in the place of Arine's eyes. 

A moment later Troup, his saddle horse, became 
convinced there was no spirit there, for he felt a 
vigorous thrust from anything but a spiritual foot 
in his side, and he bounded away in a gallop. 

III. 

For several days Anne was in a state of quiet 
happiness. She did not see Jim for a week — she 
35 



Songs and Stories 

did not want to. She did not know what was 
going to happen, but she felt as if something was, 
and that all was safe. She sang around the 
house like a bird. It all flashed over her one day 
when her father said at the tea table : 

** That boy Jim Wetherall is a trump. He has 
got more horse sense in a minute than I have in 
a year !" Anne looked up in astonishment. The 
Colonel continued: **You know Ole Mistis is 
entered in the Cumberland Futurity, worth 
$50,000 to the winner. I have never regarded 
her as a promising candidate, and of late she has 
been going so badly in her work under the new 
jockey that I had abandoned the idea of paying 
the final entrance fee. But Jim — you know how 
interested he has always been in the horses, 
Anne ! — (but Anne was busy with her teacup, 
while her cheeks were scarlet) — seems to be 
more so of late, and has been over every day. He 
soon convinced me the mare was shod wrong and 
that the boy Brutus knew nothing about his busi- 
ness. * Why, Colonel,' he said, in his blunt 
way, *he shouldn't ride a speckled steer to water 
for me ; the mare is fast, very fast — he doesn't 
understand her.' And what do you reckon .?" 
Anne could not imagine ! *' Why, he is actually 
working her himself, with Jake as a rider, and I 
never saw such improvement, Anne," he said, as 
he came around to her chair. *Mf I could only 
win that stake it would be the happiest day of my 
36 



from Tennessee 

life. Never more would I race a horse — never 
again would I gamble. I feel almost upset of 
late. I am weak and peevish, vacillating and 
unnerved. Last night," he said, slowly, and 
with more seriousness than was his custom, **I 
dreamed of your dear mother, child, and her 
sweet, dark eyes seemed full of pity and sorrow," 
and Colonel Dinwiddle walked slowly over to the 
portrait which hung on the wall and stood looking 
at it in silent admiration, while his daughter 
came up and put her arms around him with, 
** Never mind, father; don't be worried. Just 
let Jim take charge — he is clever and honest, 
and will surprise you yet." 

The morning of the greatest race ever run on 
Tennessee soil came. The city was crowded 
with visitors ; excitement was at fever heat. 

**We haven't a chance in the world, Anne," 
said Col. Dinwiddle to his daughter, as she sat in 
the grand stand, dazed and confused with the 
mighty crowd around her and a terrible weight 
on her heart. ** It is not so bad as that, Anne," 
said Jim, who had come up to whisper a few 
words of encouragement before the horses start- 
ed ; *' there is always a chance in a horse race. 
The best one may break his leg within ten feet 
of the wire. So don't be altogether wretched," 
and he went off to look after the mare. 

Two o'clock ! The crowd was immense. 
Never before was assembled such a galaxy of 
37 



Songs and Stories 

beauty and gallantry in the Volunteer state. The 
riders were weighed, horses handicapped and all 
sent up the stretch. 

Jake was delighted when told he was to ride 
Ole Mistis. He was ignorant of the fact that the 
mare was thought to be in no fix to win and that 
the betting was lO to i against her. 

*' All enybody's got ter do," he said to him- 
self, *'is to set on her an' guide 'er. I'd lil<e to 
see 'em beat Ole Mistis !" 

But when his master came to him in the stretch 
to give him instructions even the little darkey 
saw something was wrong. He had never seen 
the Colonel look that way before. His eyes 
were stern, but expressionless ; his voice husky 
with emotion, and the quick spirit of command 
seemed to have given way to the evil genius of 
despair. Quiet and commanding as ever, but 
Jake saw he was in no mood to be crossed, and 
all but guessed his master had made up his mind 
for defeat and ruin. 

^Make!" 

**Yes, Marster," said Jake. 

** Listen to what I tell you, and do as I tell 
you. Do you see that bay horse there ?" 

**Yes, Marster," and Jake cast his keen eyes 
contemptuously on the bay. 

** Well, Jake, they say he is going to beat my 
mare. If he does" — he clutched Jake's arm 
tightly, so tight the boy winced, and his master's 
38 



from Tennessee 

voice sunk to a whisper as he said — ** If he does, 
Jake, I am ruined, ruined !" — and the boy almost 
quailed before the stern expression that gleamed 
from his master's eyes. Then he resumed : 
**Now listen : the bay will set the pace, but do 
you keep up with him — easy as you can, but up 
to him — stay with him. It's four miles, and a 
death struggle ; but the mare can go the route. 
When you come in the stretch at the last mile, 
take this rawhide" — drawing a keen whip — 
— ** and whip her from the last eighth home. It's 
your only chance, and not much at that. Do 
you hear me ?" for Jake gazed at him in astonish- 
ment. 

' * Marster, ' ' — slowly — * * you sho'ly don't 'spec* 
me ter whip Ole Mistis wid dis ?" — apologetically. 

** Expect you ?" thundered the Colonel. ** Did 
you hear what I said ? Do as I tell you or I'll 
have the overseer flay you alive after this race. 
Do you hear, now ?" 

**Yes, Marster," said Jake, as he took the 
whip and turned the mare into line. But to him- 
self he said : 

** Whut ! Me beat Ole Mistis wid dis thing ? 
Ole Mistis — my Ole Mistis .? I'll take it myself 
fust ! Sho'ly Marster ain't at hissef " — and he 
looked around to see where the bay horse, 
Loraine, was. At that moment Jim Wetherall 
came up. 

** Jake," he said, **what did the Colonel tell 
39 



Songs and Stories 

you ?" Jake told him. ** That's all right; now 
listen to me. Do you see that path of firm clay 
there in the center of the track ? Well, it runs 
from the last eighth to the wire. I worked all the 
morning with ten teams to put it there. The 
track is too soft for the mare, Jake; and, besides, 
you know how she is. She's foolish about things 
at the old home, ain't she, Jake ?" 

** Dat she is, Marse Jim." 

''And we've run her on the clay path in the 
orchard for weeks, haven't we, Jake ? Well, 
now, boy, what we want to do is to make the old 
mare feel at home. When you come round the 
last time throw her on this path — the footing is 
good — cut her loose, and I don't believe any of 
them can head you !" 

Jake nodded. **And don't forget this," he 
said : *' I've got a thousand dollars in my pocket 
to buy you if you win this race, and, on the word 
of Jim Wetherall, I'll set you free. Do you 
understand me, Jake ?" 

The negro's eyes fell. ** I'll win it enyway, 
ef I can, Marse Jim. Whut I wanter be free fur 
— whut'd I do erway frum. ole Marster an' Ole 
Mistis ?" And Jake waited for the word. 

But all were not ready, and the longer they 
waited the more intense became the boy's anxiety. 
Left to himself in a crowd of rough jockeys, who 
did what they could to frighten the mare and 
annoy the boy, it was almost pathetic to see him 
40 



from Tennessee 

reach over and stroke the great mare's neck and 
say to her: **Doncher be afeerd, Ole Mistis — ■ 
dis am Jake — little Jake," and then he would 
add, softly and tenderly, ** He ain't gwineter hit 
you — my Ole Mistis — my Ole Mistis." 

And what a wonderful change came over the 
mare ! Not to-day, as she had been on former 
occasions, was she nervous and unruly, whirling 
round and round, endeavoring to break away, 
or refusing to line up. Her entire nature seemed 
changed — Jake'spresence was magical. She stood 
perfectly still, quiet and apparently indifferent — 
and only in her quick, glancing eye and the almost 
imperceptible play of her ears could a close 
observer have seen the great struggle going on 
within her — a struggle to control the frantic desire 
for wild flight — a desire inherited from an hundred 
ancestors — now fighting for possession of her na- 
ture. It was a grand example, even in a brute, 
of will conquering passion, of dumb intelligence 
controlling brute force, of a small ray of human 
reason, playing like an electric spark through 
clouds of tumultuous darkness and waiting for the 
explosion that would make the thunderbolt ! 

The starter is talking — Jake knows not what, 
but he gathers the reins tighter. The flag drops ; 
the ball of living, flying flesh is shot ; a roar an- 
swers back from the grand stand which says, 
"They're off! They're off !" 

Jake had great confidence in his master's judg- 
41 



Songs and Stories 

ment. Ignoring every other horse, he kept his 
small, black eyes on the big, galloping bay, and 
his swaggering, insolent rider. Unused to the 
crowd and the flying speed, the sensation of riding 
so fast, for the first quarter, was almost painful 
to Jake — he appeared to himself to be flying in 
the air, tied to a projectile. The roar of the wind 
in his ears hurt them ; he dodged instinctively, 
and with a silent prayer placed his mount by the 
side of the bay and held her in. The rider of 
Loraine was an old jockey and knew as well as 
the gamblers what horse he had to beat, as well 
as the invincible prowess of his own horse — there 
was nothing there could beat him ! 

'' Don't ride so fast, little nig," he shouted to 
Jake in derision. ** Gib de rest of us a showin'; 
we've got fo' miles to go; don't pump us out de 
fust mile." 

But this disturbed not Jake. If a negro has one 
quality overtopping all others it is his infinite 
patience. And Jake was a true type of his race. 
He said nothing, but no snake in the swamp 
had a quicker eye, or knew better when to 
strike. 

As the Colonel had said, Loraine had set the 

pace, and it was hot enough. " But look, 

Anne," he said, '*how the mare goes to his 

girth and stays there ! See with what a bold 

and assuring stride she flies along — easy, graceful, 

unconcerned. I never saw her run so ! Great 

God ! if she will only win !" And Anne, when 
42 



from Tennessee 

she saw the gallant fight, cried softly to herself 
and sent up a silent prayer. 

'' Cum on little woolly-head," said Loraine's 
rider, as they passed the first mile, ** dis am 
gwinter be er hoss-race. I'm jes' playin' wid 
you now to get your wind — by an' by I'll leave 
you an' de ole mare in de home-stretch to pick 
grass." But the satyr imp said never a word, 
and the gray mare, as she pulled anon on the bit, 
told even her inexperienced rider that she had a 
reserve supply of speed. But how much ? And 
did the bay have more ? 

On they went ! Two miles ! Jake knew it 
by a second roar from the stand as they passed. 
He tried to look forward but the wind cut his 
eyes ; he recognized only a black mass of shout- 
ing humanity. Loraine's rider still rode uncon- 
cerned and indifferent. Jake dreaded the mo- 
ment when he would act, when he'd send the 
bay for the death struggle. The boy's heart beat 
like a drum, his breath came in gasps, his throat 
was dry ! *'Cum on little nig," — he heard no 
more, for the bay was pulling away, and the 
rushing air was an organ hurricane playing a 
thousand tunes in his ear. The sunshine flashed 
a thousand kaleidoscopic colors before his eyes ! 
He seemed to be flying, but whether backward 
or forward he knew not. ** Cum on little " — but 
he barely caught the sound, so far away did 
Loraine's rider appear to be. Another roar ! 
43 



Songs and Stories 

Three miles ! The track was a small white line 
stretched in the air. Jake heard the shouts of 
the riders behind him, the slashing of many 
whips as the keen instruments of torture fell on 
straining flanks. His own mare scudded before 
the field of noise behind her as a sea-bird before 
the hurricane's roar, and yet she seemed to get 
no nearer the demon bay that flew fearlessly 
along. She pulled on her bit ! Instinct seemed 
to tell her she must go now or never. ** Not yit, 
Ole Mistis, not yit !" said her ashen-faced rider, 
as he bent to her stride and patted her sweat- 
covered neck. At the last half ! It seemed to 
Jake they had gone a day's journey — that time 
had stopped and eternity had begun since he shot 
away on that frenzied ride. How many long 
miles yet lay between him, it seemed, and where 
Miss Anne sat, pale and statue-like, in the blurred 
bank of humanity under the grand stand ! The 
last quarter ! Jake raised in his stirrups. " Now, 
Ole Mistis, go !'' he fairly shouted, as he gave her 
full head for the first time. The mare responded 
with a gallant leap — another and another — but 
no nearer did she come to the bay. Loraine had 
been turned loose, too, and increased the distance 
between them with demoniacal swiftness ! Like 
a death-stab the thought went through Jake's 
mind for the first time that he could not win. 
The tears gushed to his eyes, the blood seemed 
to congeal in his very heart ; he clutched the 
44 



from Tennessee 

saddle to retain his seat. Loraine was just 
ahead ; they were now at the last eighth. Fren- 
zied — frantic — blinded — bewildered, Jake knew 
not what he did. In despair he raised his whip, 
it flashed a moment in the sunlight, then went 
whistling across the track. He had thrown it 
away ! But look ! Loraine now fairly flew ! 
He seemed to know the time had come. His own 
mare ? She was falling back. He knew it, he 
felt it — he was beaten ! Overcome with grief 
and shame, he forgot all about Loraine. He 
thought only of the old home, of his love for his 
master, of Miss Anne, of his idolatrous worship 
of the mare, mingled with the fact that he had 
ruined them all. A clay path flashed under the 
mare's nose, and then he thought of Jim Weth- 
erall's words — of his promised freedom. Crazed 
with fear and shame, he guided the mare in the 
path, let out all his rein, and flung himself for- 
ward on her neck, clinging to her mane like an 
imp on a flying cloud. Thrusting two brown 
heels into her flanks, he burst out crying, and in 
tones that moved even the victorious rider of 
Loraine, he sobbed : " Ole Mistis ! Ole Mistis ! 
Dis am Jake — little Jake ! Go home, Ole Mistis ! 
Go home, Ole Mistis !! Go home!!!'* 

To the surprise of the spectators, who now 

looked on the victory of Loraine as complete, the 

mare answered this pathetic call with a burst of 

speed unheard of on the track even to this day. 

45 



Songs and Stories 

A thousand demons of determination blazed in 
her eyes. One — two — three leaps she made, like 
a startled doe at the death bleat of her fawn, and 
in a twinkling she had cleared the distance be- 
tween herself and the bay. The crowd roared 
in a tumult of excitement — men climbed on one 
another's shoulders — the gray mare came like a 
rocket ! Loraine's driver, startled and now thor- 
oughly in earnest, went to his whip. It flashed a 
moment in the air and fell with stinging emphasis 
on the bay's shoulders ! The animal swerved — 
that blow was his ruin, for the gallant bay, never 
before having felt a blow, swerved slightly to 
avoid it. Only a yard or two — but yards are 
miles when seconds are hurricanes ! Only a 
moment of indecision— but indecision is mutiny 
when stakes are kingdoms ! Like a swallow be- 
fore the blast, the gray mare thrust her long neck 
under the wire — and the race was won ! 

A moment later the crowd of shouting, frenzied 
people ceased shouting to a man, when the fleet 
animal, having no one to guide her, turned so 
suddenly into the drawgate that opened on the 
infield as to hurl Jake off, and left him mangled 
on the track. Later they stood, a surging crowd, 
around a beautiful girl seated on the ground and 
holding a bruised and bleeding face in her lap, 
upon which her own tears fell. The boy opened 
his eyes and half unconsciously began to mur- 
mur : '* 'Most home, Ole Mistis ! 'Most home, Ole 
46 



""^^^ 




Dis am Jake— little Jake ! Go home, Ole Mistis ! Go home ! ! 



from Tennessee 

Mistis ! 'Most home !" Presently a ray of con- 
sciousness came back to his lusterless orbs, as 
he recognized his young mistress and exclaimed : 
** Oh, Miss Anne, did we win ?'* and interpreting 
correctly the half joyous smile that, despite her 
tears, shone round her mouth at thought of their 
victory, he closed his eyes and said : ** Thang 
•God, an' I didn't tech 'er a lick. Tell Marster 
I'm sorry — but — I — couldn't — hit — 'er !" For a 
moment he was silent and then his lips moved 
again — feebly, for the life spark was nearly 
gone : *' * Blessed — am — de — merciful — fur — dey 
— shall — obtain mercy' " — and the little slave 
was free forever. 



47 



Songs and Stories 



MISS KITTY'S FUN'RAL. 



Q 



HEAH de banjo ringin', 
O heah de tamboreen, 
O heah de darkies singin', 
Susanna am my queen. 
O cum, my lub ; O cum, my lub, wid me ; 
We'll dance an' sing down by de 'simmon tree ; 
O heah de banjo ringin', 
O heah de tamboreen ; 
O heah de darkies singin ', 
Susanna am my queen. 

A song in type is as unsatisfactory as one of 
Nature's pastels on pasteboard, and the simple 
negro melody above sounds nothing like the 
vibrating notes that floated, not long ago, into my 
window, fresh from the echoing strings of a 
banjo. I could not resist it, and on going out I 
found Old Wash, as everybody calls the old 
darkey, under the elm that shaded his cabin door. 
The moonbeams glittered askance, flecking the 
earth with silvered blossoms and changing each 
48 



from Tennessee 

flooded leaf into a night-blooming flower. The 
distant notes of a tree-frog came from the forest 
beyond, while the regular cadences of a whip- 
poorwill added just the tinge of weirdness neces- 
sary to form the background of a banjo song. In 
darkey language, the old man was *'makin' de 
banjo hum," and for melody and sweetness, in 
the hands of a master, there is no instrument 
more weirdly musical. 

To-night Old Wash was beside himself. The 
brass thimble on his '^pickin' finger " flashed in 
the moonlight ; his foot patted in unison, and 
fluttered like a black bat trying to leave the 
earth. Even his body kept time and swayed to 
and fro with the music. I listened in silent de- 
light. The tune I had heard before, but not the 
words, for he was improvising as he played. 

De little stars am winkin*, 

Dey 'bout ter go ter sleep ; 
De pale moon now am sinkin', 

An' daylight shadders creep. 
O cum, my lub, we'll dance Ferginny reel ; 
De sun am up an' shinin'; now fur de cotton fiel'. 
O heah de banjo ringin', 

O heah de tamboreen ; 
O heah de darkies singin', 

Susanna am my queen, 

'*Go on, old man," I said: ''Give me that 
4 49 



Songs and Stories 

song again. You almost make me feel like going 
courting again. What's the matter with you ? 
Thinking about starting all over in life ?" 

'*No, sah ; 'taint dat, sah," laughed the old 
man, *' 'taint dat. Deys too much moss on de 
ole tree fur de leaves ter cum ergin. De sap 
can't rise when de bark am dead. De leabes fall 
off when de cotton boll open. Didn't you nurver 
think erbout it.?" he added after a moment's 
thought, *'de soul don't nurver gro' ole ef it's 
libbed right. De head gits white an' de lim's 
weak an' de eyes dim, but de soul gits younger 
es it grows older, de ole man gits mo' lak er boy 
es he goes down de hill. Nachur kinder seems 
to ease us off de stage ob life gently, lak she fotch 
us in. In our ole age we gits young ergin an' 
childish an' happy. We eben try ter kick up 
our heels ergin an' be funny an' 'magine we 
gwinter lib er long, long time yit. Sho' me de 
ole man — don't keer how ole he am — dat don't 
spec' ter lib at least ten yeahs longer. Dat's 
nachur's way ob foolin' us, sah ; dat's her way 
ob puttin' her babies ter sleep — de las' long sleep. 
Puttin' 'em ter sleep contented lak, an' happy, 
thinkin' dey'll wake in the mornin' an' be young 
ergin." 

*'l tell you, sah, ole Marster's mighty good to 

us. He could er put us heah widout hope, ef he 

had wanted to ; he could er put us heah widout 

sweet dreams, widout vishuns ob er better wurl, 

50 



from Tennessee 

widout dat onpurchasabul feelin' dat cums to us 
when we knows we dun right — widout eben de 
blessed Book. But he didn't. An' so we dream 
on to de last an' hope to de last, an' b'leeve we 
gwinter be better an' stronger to-morrer an' cling 
to de Good Book fur de sweetes' promis' ob dem 
all — de promis' dat we'll lib ergin. 

**No, sah," he continued, as he threw off his 
solemn tone and brightened up a bit, *'no, sah, 
sho' es you lib right you'll git younger es you 
gro' older. Why, sah, de oldes' man or woman 
in de wurl am de middle-aiged, chillun-raisin', 
money-makin', bizness-wurryin', ain't-got-no- 
time to-eat, folks. Dey am de ole ones, far older 
den de gray haids lak me dat dun laid erside all 
dese heah trashy things an' got to romatin' ergin. 

'' Why, whut you reckon I wus thinkin' erbout 
to-night?" asked the old man as he looked 
sheepishly around at the doorway, in which sat 
Aunt Dinah, his wife. This dusky lady had been 
listening apparently unconcerned at the old man's 
narration, but filling the still night air with 
fragrant breath of ** deer tongue and Williamson 
leaf" as the smoke curled up from her newly 
made cob-pipe. 

** Thinkin' about marrying again ?" I asked, as 
I glanced suspiciously at Aunt Dinah, and then 1 
watched her shuffle her feet disdainfully as she 
stopped smoking long enough to remark lacon- 
ically : *' Jes' let 'im go on, young Marster — let 
51 



Songs and Stories 

'im superseed," she said as she followed her 
usual custom of throwing in some big word sound- 
ing something like the one she was trying to use. 
** Let 'im superseed. He has dese fits ebry now 
an' den an' de bes' way.ter stop 'im am to let 'im 
run down lak you hafter do dese heah old-fash- 
uned clocks. Whut er indellibul wurkin' appler- 
atus he'd be," she said ironically, **ef he wus 
only es game in der tater patch as he am in de 
moonlight." 

The old man glanced sorrowfully at the door- 
way and continued: " Ternight I jes' gotter 
thinkin' erbout my young Mistis, Miss Kitty, de 
younges' dorter ob Marse Robert Young ; de 
chile ob his old aige by his secon' wife, de prooty 
leetle Yankee guv'ness dat cum down from Bos- 
ting. She cum down ter teach ole Marster's 
yudder gals, but she got ter lubbin' her skolers 
so she married dey daddy so she cud be a mammy 
to 'em. Ain't it strange how wimmen folks will 
git up enny kinder excuse to marry on ? Why, 
I've knowed 'em ter marry fur indergestion an' 
dat tired feelin'," laughed the old darkey, as he 
winked at me and then glanced at the cabin door. 

**Wal, she made 'em er good mudder an' ole 
Marster er good wife ef she did lub cod-fish balls 
an' baked beans. An' her dorter^ Miss Kitty ! 
Why man erlive, dat Yankee cross on our Sud- 
dern stock jes' got up de prooties' gal dat eber 
sa.id * Yas ' to young lub. She had all de brains 
52 



from Tennessee 

an' intellec' ob her mammy's side wid all de 
grace an' beauty an' high breedin' an' lily-com- 
plecshun ob us Youngus. Her mammy was 
allers dead in fur edercashun, an' so ole Marster 
saunt an' got 'er three guv'nesses ; one fur eder- 
cashun, one fur musicashun, an' one fur dress- 
ercashun ; an' my ! how she did shine when she 
growed up ! She was de prooties' gal dat eber 
trod blue grass, de queenlies' one dat eber 
gethered up her trail, an' de sweetes' one dat 
eber pulled er rose in er golden bower whar de 
hunnysuckers gethers de dew-draps an' de turkey 
dove sings in de moonlight. I wus de kerridge 
driver an' kep' de horses, an' es I useter drive 
her about an' see her wid all her grace an' beauty 
git in an' out de kerridge, I tell you I wus thank- 
ful it wus me dat had charge ob her an' not my 
ancestors in Affercur — fur dey would hab et 'er 
up, thinkin' she wus sum kinder plumidged bird 
ob de golden pheasant tribe. 

''Endurin' her sebenteenth yeah, Marse Rob- 
ert's half-brother died in Alerbama an' lef Marse 
Robert gyardeen fur his son, Henry Robert Little- 
ton, an' he soon cum out to Tennessee 'kose he 
had no close kin libin', an' Marse Robert wanted 
to raise 'im, though he was nineteen dat fall. An' 
he wus er fme young man, sah; es gentle es er gal 
an' es nervy es a red-bird in de settin' time. Ef 
by accerdent he got in de wrong, he'd mighty nigh 
Stan' ennythin' to git right ergin ; but onc't in de 
53 



V 



Songs and Stories 

right he'd fight fur er eye-lash. Why, I onc't 
seed 'im 'pollergize to de oberseer, who wus allers 
oberbearin' an' cussin', 'stead ob actin'. Jes' 
think ob it ! 'pollergize to de oberseer ! 'kose he 
happen not to know de oberseer's orders one day 
an' saunt one ob de ban's on ernudder erran'. 
T'would er made no diff' rence ef he hadn't 'poll- 
ergized fur it, but common trash can't stan' quality 
an' allers mistakes gentleness fur lak ob grit, an' 
Marse Henry's humbleness made de po' white 
trash uppish an' he snapped out dat he didn't 
spec no better raisin' from er boy dat had cum 
frum sech er cracker state es Alerbama — hoo — 
hoo — e! — dat's es fur es he got — Marse Henry 
knocked 'im down three times befo' he cud git 
up onc't. 

** Bringin' two sech nachurs togedder under de 
same roof am mighty nigh de same thing es mix- 
in' shampain an' red lips, an' I seed de thing wus 
fixed up betwixt 'em befo' ole Marster caught on 
an' saunt de boy, as he called 'im, to Ferginny 
to finish his aigucashun. But dat didn't do no 
good ; ennybody dat had eber seed Miss Kitty 
en' cud ferget 'er ain't de kinder folks de gods 
lub ter kill young, an' arter he ben dar fo' yeahs 
an' finish his aigucashun heah he cum back to 
Tennessee ergin. * Yore haid's lebel, Marse 
Henry,* sez I to myself; ' de right kinder man 
don't fall in lub but onc't an' den he strikes de 
pyore metal or de wuss pocket ob flint dat eber 
54 



from Tennessee 

turned er pick ! An' in yore case ef you ain't 
struck de pyore metal I'm black !' 

** An' I've heurd ob Romeo an' Greece an' all 
dem ole lubbers," said the old man learnedly, 
" but de way dese heah two young folks lubbed 
one ernudder befo' de summer went by wus 
ernuf to make all de yudder aiges take in deir 
signs. Dat's de happies' time ob eberybody's 
life, ennyhow," he soliloquized : '*We ain't got 
much brains at dat stage, 'kose Nachur didn't 
intend us ter hab 'em ; ef we did we wouldn't 
git kotch in de trap she sets fur us — de trap ob 
matermony. Arter we gits kotched," said the 
old man as he shook all over with quiet laughter 
— "arter we git kotched, we lak de fox in de 
fable dat got hees tail in de steel trap — we kerry 
it roun' wid us ebrywhar we go an' make out lak 
hits des whut we wus lookin' fur all de time, an' 
er butiful ornerment — but Lor, hit pinches mighty 
hard all de same." 

(A vigorous, jerky puffmg in the doorway and 
clouds of outraged smoke went up to the stars !) 

**An' whut you reckon my idee ob Heaben 
am ?" queried the old man emphatically. *' Hit's 
er blessed place way up on sum star, whar de 
Good Marster 'lows us ter fall in lub ebry day, 
but neber 'lows us ter spile de dream by marryin' 
— fur dat would sho' bust up Heaben !" he said 
as he shot another look at the doorway. **An' 
I kin prove it by de Scripturs deysef," he con- 
55 



Songs and Stories 

tinued. ** Don't de Scripturs say *dar shall be 
no marryin' nur gibbin' in marriage?' an' don't 
dey also teech us dat up in Heaben we will all 
lub one ernudder ? Wei jes' put dem two argy- 
ments togedder an' tell me how you gwinter git 
erround 'em, sah. Don't dat prove de p'int ?" 

** I don't wish to get around them," I laughed, 
*'they seem to be good doctrine; but go on 
with your story." 

** Wal, sah, de match wus de talk ob de coun- 
try, as bein' de mos' suiterabules' one dat eber 
wus. 

*' Marse Henry an' Miss Kitty 1 When I thinks 
ob dem ternight I kin see de dew on de young 
grass ob life, de roses in de gyarden ob lub, an' 
de stars in de skies ob happiness. 1 smell de 
flowers ob de past ergin lak dey uster smell when 
I wus young. I see de long walks in de shade 
ob de ellums an' de oaks, an' de breaf ob de 
prim-roses floats ober de gyarden. I see de hoss- 
back rides when de flutter ob Miss Kitty's ribbon 
meant de flag ob de yunerverse to Marse Henry, 
an' de perfume on her bit ob lace han'kerchief 
brought up de sweetes' fragrance frum de depths 
ob hees hart. Her eyes wus so bright dey'd 
bring him up befo' day, lak de sun befo' its time, 
an' her cheeks wus es butiful es de mohnin' 
skies erbloom. 

" O dar am lubs an' lubs, but dar am only jes' 
one fus' lub fur us all. De make-shifts arter 
56 



from Tennessee 

dat am lak tryin' to make de red rosebud bloom 
twict.'' 

** But sumhow ruther ole Marster had his haid 
sot on er young lawyer in town dat dey called 
Capin' Estes, dat wuz also courtin' Miss Kitty, 
lak ebrybody else dat seed 'er, an' ole Marster 
looked wid mo' favor on his suit dan he did on 
Marse Henry's, on account ob de relashunship 
betwixt 'em. But dar's where ole Marster missed 
it, an' de onlies' time I urver knowed 'im to miss 
it. But dis feller wuz slick, an' he done it all 
wid de leetle insterment in 'is jaw. He was allers 
talkin' erbout de constertooshunal perogatives ob 
de divine right ob freemen' an' er makin' law 
speeches in de Jestis court an' er windin' up wid 
*my country, my muther, my Gord, an' my 
feller citizens,' fer he was sech a demijug he 
allers put de citizens highes'. Ef he wasn't free 
wind at de rasho ob i6 ter i, an' de onlimited 
coinage ob brass, my name ain't Washingtun ! 
Why, he cu'd talk on fo' things at de same time, 
pocket er fee on bof sides ob er case, an' keep 
one eye on de bar-room an' de yuther on de 
church steeple. He cu'd play poker lak er gam- 
bler, drink lak er Kansas drought, an' pray lak 
er country deacon. He cu'd get drunk lak er 
sinner, an' yit stan' highes' es er saint ; mak lub 
wid one eye to Miss Kitty an' yit keep de yuther 
solemnly sot fur ole Marster lak St. Paul watchin' 
fur revolushuns ! 

57 



Songs and Stories 

** But de thing soon cum to er end. Marse 
Henry was too honerbul to court a gal widout her 
daddy's say-so, an' de Chewsday befo' Easter 
him an' ole Marster had er long talk in de library. 
Den Marse Henry cum out sorry lak an' solemn 
an' he tells me ter take extry keer ob Jap — dat 
wuz his haf-thurrerbred saddle boss — an' ter rub 
'im down well, an' ter feed 'im oats, not er grain 
ob cohn. *Fur,' sez he, 'Wash, I'm agwine 
erway furebber !' 

** An' dat night I seed er ghost ! Hit wuz jes' 
arter Marse Henry started off. I hilt his sturrup 
an' beg 'im wid tears in my eyes not ter leab us : 
*Who gwi' he'p me take keer ob de bosses now 
an' pick out de yearlin's fur de spring races ? 
Who dis nigger gwi' toiler arter de houn's in de 
spring an' de patterges in de fall ? Who gwi' be 
de mohnin sun ob de place in de strength ob his 
truth an' boner, an' de sweet moonlight in his 
tender senterment an' simplicty ? Who gwi' set 
de 'zample 'mong de young folks fur dat conshus 
quietness dat cums wid de knowledge ob game- 
ness dat am afeered ob nothin' but doin' wrong ? 
O, Marse Henry ! Marse Henry, we can't let 
you go 1' 

*M hilt on ter his sturrups an' beg 'im ergin 
an' ergin, fur sumhow I felt lak I'd nurver see 
'im enny mo'. But he only grip my han' ergin 
an' ergin, an' look at me good-by — good — by — 
wid his eyes, fur he cudden't talk, an' rode off 
5S 



from Tennessee 

in de gloom down de big row ob ellums. An' 
dars whar I seed er ghost ! De fus' one I eber 
seed ! Fur es I stood watchin' 'im wid sumpin' 
lak er pound weight in my throat, an' mighty 
nigh a ton in my heart, I seed dat ghost plain es 
I ebber seed ennything ! He hed got nearly to 
de gate in de dark ob de big obershadowin' trees 
whar de new moon wuz tangled up in de lim's 
(sho' sign er bad luck !) when out slip de ghost 
frum behind er big tree an' I lakter drap in my 
tracks ! De lump went down in my throat, but 
great Gawd, how my hair riz I De ghost wuz 
dressed in er windin' sheet ob white an' wid long 
hair hangin' down er back, an' she skeered Jap 
so he bolts an' snorts ; an' she muster skeered 
Marse Henry too, fur I seed 'im stoop down ter 
grab dat ghost an' sabe hissef, an' — an' — den — 
fo' Gawd ! I kno' yo' won't beliebe it, but 
Marse Henry jes' kissed dat ghost time an' ergin 
an' I heurd 'im say *furebber my darling,' er 
sumpin' dat sounded lak it, an' den Jap's gallup 
clattered up de pike an' de young Marster dat I 
lub so well wuz gone !" 

**How yo' know dat wuz er gal-ghost ef yo' 
nurver seed one befo' ?" came mercilessly from 
the doorway. ** O you'll be inexpressibul in de 
tater-patch to-morrer !" But the old man had not 
been married fifty years and failed to learn the 
first lesson of matrimony, so he said nothing but 
sorrowfully continued : 

59 



Songs and Stories 

**De naixt thing we heurd, Marse Henry wuz 
way down in Fluridy, an' de naixt he hed jined 
General Lopez wid de five hundred Americans dat 
went ober ter he'p de Cubans fight fer liberty. 
An' dey got er fighter when dey got Marse 
Henry ! Hit was bred in 'im, fur it cum jes' es 
nachul fur us Scotch-Irish ter fight fur liberty — 
ennybody's liberty an' enny kinder liberty — es 
it is fer er game cock ter crow when he sees de 
fus' beam ob daylight. 

** Fur Liberty," said the old man, " is de day- 
light ob humanity ! An' while I'm on dat sub- 
jec'," he said warmly, *M jes' wanter go on 
record 'bout dese Cuban fights : Dat wuz forty- 
five years ergo, an' I heurn tell dese Cubans am 
makin' de same fight now dey did den. I heah 
de papers call 'em rebels, but I tell yo', sonny, 
dat am er wrong name. Ef dey succeeds de 
wurl will call 'em patriots ! 

**Fur rebel," he said, 'Ms de name dat 
tyranny gibs to de onsuccessful patriot ! 

'*An' hit makes my blood bile," he said, as 
he grew excited, arose from his chair, and threw 
his banjo down, ''hit makes my blood bile when 
I sees how we set back on our dignerty, burn 
fiah-crackers, cellerbrate de fourth ob July, an' 
scream fur de bird ob freedom twell we hab er 
case ob kronic sore-throat, an' den call de folks 
dat am makin' de same fight we made, rebels. 
An' wussen dat; set right still aholdin' to de 
60 



from Tennessee 

tail ob our eagle— (fur fear he'll fly ober dar I 
reckon) — an' fusin' to help 'em. We, who fit fur 
luss dan one-tenth dese people hafter stan', now 
arter we git strong an' pow'ful, we set back an' 
see dem make de same fight we made, an' feered 
all de time to open our moufs, lest we take er 
bad cold ! 

''Or ef we does we puts our ban's ober our 
harts an' bows an' scrapes erroun' dat little nest 
ob royal crows, dat useter be Spanish eagles, an' 
talk erbout de curt'sy ob Nashuns an' all dat! 
Shame, I say !" 

As he sat down after delivering this rebuke, 
his voice was peculiarly sad as he continued : 
*'But you've read history an' kno' how dat fight 
ended. Marse Henry beat 'em time an' ergin, 
but arter erwhile de leetle ban' was oberpow- 
ered by de whole Spanish army, an' — wal" — he 
wiped away a tear — '*dem dat didn't die in de 
fight wus hung up lak dogs ! All but Marse Henry 
— brave, generus, noble Marse Henry ! De 
papers said dat he erlone wuz shot, dat he gib de 
Spanish offercers ole Jap, de horse he lubbed so 
well, ef he'd shoot 'im lak er sojer, an' not hang 
'im lak er spy ! An' dey shot 'im fer doin' whut 
wuz bred in 'im ter do, when two ob his gran'- 
daddies follered de flag ob Green's brigade in 
No'th Calliner, or helped whip ole Ferguson at 
King's Mountain. 

*' Po' Marse Henry ! Wal, sah, de news lakter 
6i 



Songs and Stories 

kill us. Hit hurt eben ole Marster, fur I uster 
heah him walkin' de library flo' an' talkin' erbout 
it to hissef : * De boy wuz too high strung,' he 
would say. ' I did not want 'im to leab us. I 
had no idea he wuz gwine on dat fool filler- 
buster !' An' den he would storm erroun' dat 
room an' git hot under de collar as he thort how 
contrary to de rules ob war dey had acted in 
shootin' Marse Henry, an' den all at onct I see 
'im tak down de ole sword his daddy wore at 
King's Mountain, an' es he fotch it down wid a 
bang on de library table lak he thort de whole 
Spanish army wuz dar, he sez : * Dam dem 
Spanish dogs ! Dey am nuffin' but hired cowards, 
an' I cud tak er regerment ob Tennessee troops 
lak dat brave boy an' gib de Union de leetle 
islan' es a birf-day gif '. Dam 'em, I say !' O, 
ole Marster wuz sho' mad, an' when he got mad 
in er righteous cause he cud mak Unkle Toby 
ershamed ob his cussin' record ! 

** An' Miss Kitty ! — I jes' can't talk erbout it 
widout chokin' up. Fur two yeahs she went in 
deep mournin', his own widder cudden't er tuck 
on wusser, fur she nurver smiled an' noboddy 
wuz 'lowed ter menshun Marse Henry's name, 
hit seemed to 'feet her so ! 

** But Time am Sorrow's doctah," sagely con- 
tinued the old man, **an' his poultice will draw 
out de sharpes' pain ! 

**Five long yeahs passed, an' Estes had got 
62 



from Tennessee 

high up in pollertics ; he started out on er brass 
basis an' went frum postmaster ter Congress. 
He'd er gone ter Heaben ef he could er worked 
it through er pollitercal convenshun ! 

" An' now, whut you reckon ? De news cum 
dat he gwine ter marry Miss Kitty — an' sho' 
'nuff— hit's true ! 

** When I foun' hit out, I gin up all faith'in man- 
kind in gin'ral an' womankind in perticler. But 
den I felt sorry fur Miss Kitty when I larnt dat 
she wuz jes' gwine ter marry 'im to please 'er old 
daddy — fur she'd do ennything honorbul fur ole 
Marster — an' dat she tole Estes she would marry 
'im but dat she would allers lub Marse Henry. 
She nurver tole me, mind you, but one night I 
seed it plainer den wurds kin tell. I seed it an' 
knowed 'er heart wuz in Marse Henry's grabe. 
1 seed er ghost ergin, but hit wuz Marse Henry's 
ghost dis time. 

" Dis wuz de Chewsdy night befo' Easter, jes' 
five yeahs to de night dat Marse Henry went 
away. De big weddin' wuz ter cum off de naixt 
night an' de house wuz full ob comp'ny an' cakes. 
Miss Kitty nurver smiled, but hed gone erbout all 
day lak de Greek maiden, spotless an' pyore, dat 
de skule books tell us dey useter kill to de wicket 
idols in de ole times befo' de gates ob Troy. 

** Dat night I had gone ter sleep thinkin' erbout 
Marse Henry, an' how Jap useter stan' in de fust 
stall naixt to de door ; how Marse Henry allers 
63 



Songs and Stories 

useter cum whistlin' outen de house when he 
wanted me to saddle Jap, an' how we useter talk 
erbout de hosses, an' go to de races an' hooraw 
ef our hoss won. I wuz jes' thinkin' how open 
an' manly he wuz, an' how fur erpart he wuz 
frum dat Estes es de two ends ob Eternity, an' 
den, whut you reckon ? I heurn Marse Henry 
cum outen de house lak he did in de days ob old. 
I heurd 'im cum down to de stable do', an' pop 
his ridin' whup es er signal fer me ter bring up 
Jap, an' den slash his whup on his leg while he 
waited — jes' lak he useter do hundreds ob times 
befo', an' all so nachul lak, jes' lak he wuz gwinter 
ride ole Jap ergin arter de houn's. An' den, sah, 
I heurd his voice jes' es plain es I urver heurn 
annything an' jes' lak he useter say, only hit 
seemed so faint an' fur erway : * Hello, Wash, 
saddle Jap ! It's time we wuz takin' er han' in 
de fun !' I heurd it so plain, I jumped outen de 
bed, an' said es I rushed to open de do', ' I'm 
cumin', Marse Henry, Tm cumin' I' But when I 
open de do' I wuz so diserpinted I lak ter cried, 
fur I cudden't see nuffin' but de trees in de dim 
moonlight, an' I heurd nuffm' but de hoot ob de 
owl ober in de woods. I felt so cuis I cudden't 
go ter sleep, fur I wuz sho' Marse Henry's spirrit 
wuz summers erbout, an' dat he cudden't rest in 
his grabe on ercount ob de weddin', an' I jes' 
walked down to de gate whar I last seed 'im five 
yeah befo' go down de road, nurver to cum back 
64 



from Tennessee 

enny mo'; eb'rything wuz so nachul I thought I 
heurd Jap's footfalls ergin, an' den ! — whut wuz 
dat I seed all dressed in white wid her long hair 
hangin' down her back an' kneelin' down under 
de tree whar she last seed Marse Henry erlive, 
an' sobbin' lak her hart wud break ? De same 
ghost I seed dat night five years ergo. I cudden't 
Stan' an' look at sech sacred grief as dat, so I 
went in my house thinkin' maybe de las' one 
wusn't a ghost sho' 'nuff, but jes' Miss Kitty 
prayin' at de tree she last seed Marse Henry er- 
live an' weepin' de las' time she cud honorably 
weep fur 'im. 

** De naixt day was de big day, but I cudden't 
stay dar an' see dat sacrilege. 'Sides dat, I felt 
cuis 'bout seein' Marse Henry's ghost, an' I 
knowed sumpin' wuz gwine happen. I knowed 
it fur sho' when I went in de kitchen next mohn- 
in' an' heurd sister Calline tell how she found er 
screech owl in Miss Kitty's room dat mohnin'. 
Sez I to' myself : * Dar ! I knows whut gwinter 
happen now. Po' innercent angel ! She'll nur- 
ver lib twell termorrow — but thang Gawd fur it, 
fur dat yudder Screech Owl will nurver git in her 
room !' 

** But when I went to de stable, dar wuz er- 
nudder sign : Ole Flint, Marse Henry's ole pet 
houn', an' de bes' one dat urver smelt er deer 
track, wuz stone dead in de stall, dead frum er 
snake bite, too ! * Dat's dat Estes doin's ergin,' 
5 65 



Songs and Stories 

sez I. * Po' innercent Miss Kitty !' An' de cov/s 
wuz pawin' an' lowin' at de pastur bars ! Now 
eb'rybody knows dat when de milk cows go ter 
pawin' an' lowin' in de mohnin' befo' brekfus, 
somebody gwinter die befo' night. I stood eben 
dat, but I gin up when I went to de well ter draw 
water fur de horses, fur dar wuz Miss Kitty jes' 
as plain es she cud be, laid out in her coffm .in 
her bridal dress ! 

** I drapped dat bucket an' lit out frum dar ! 

'* An' I went to ole Marster an' beg 'im to let 
me go down to de lower place, five miles erway ; 
an' I went to de lower place, five miles erway, 
an' dar I staid all day long waitin' fur de calam- 
erty to cum, an' groanin' in de spirit lak de 
proffit ob ole when he know de buterful. city 
gwinter fall. Fur I seed Miss Kitty dead jus' es 
plain es I see you ! 

/*0, dat wus er terribul day, an' one dat I'll 
nurver furgit, an' I sot dar in de cabin an' fast- 
ed, an' didn't eat nuffin all day, an' wrastled wid 
de spirit in prayer, all day long. 

** De weddin' wuz ter cum off at nine er clock 
at night. I wuz settin' in de cabin do' by my- 
self ; all de yudder darkies had gone to de big 
home fur de weddin' supper — but I didn't wanter 
go ; I hed no stummic dat night — I wuz all heart, 
thinkin' 'bout po' Marse Henry an' Miss Kitty's 
fun'ral dat I knowed wuz bleeged ter cum ! 

** Jes' es de clock struck nine, I heard er hoss 
66 



from Tennessee 

cum up de pike, clatter, clatter, bipperty, bipperty, 
bipperty, an' I jumped up mighty nigh er yard 
high ! 

**I knowed de soun' ob dem feet! I'd kno' 
'em in er million — dem wuz Jap's feet, an' I 
hollered, glory hallyluyer ! Befo' I knowed 
whether ter run under de bed or out on de pike 
— fur I wuz sorter skeered an' sorter brave — er 
big, strong, fine lookin' man, es brown es er young 
hick'ry an' sinewy es er race hoss, pulled up his 
hoss, covered wid sweat an' foam, at de do'. 
Pulled up his hoss quick lak an' nachul — too 
nachul fur dis nigger, fur jes' de moshun ob de 
han' fotch de tears to my eyes — fur dat hoss wuz 
Jap, de same blood-lak, cordy-legged, big-nos- 
triled, graceful Jap ob old ! 

** An' grate Gawd ! One look in de blue eyes 
ob de rider, de fine mouf, de frank, manly face, 
now bronzed an' er trifle stern, hit wus Marse 
Henry ! Marse Henry ! 

**I jumped up an' sed, * O, Marse Henry, 
ghost er no ghost, I'm gwinter hug you 1' — an' I 
did, hugged him an' Jap, too. 

** An' Marse Henry laf an' sed : 'Wash, my 
boy, I'm no ghost, but flesh an' blood, an' awful 
hongry flesh at dat. What am you doin' way 
down heah ? Gib us sumpin' ter eat, fur I'm 
anxious to git on to de ole place an' we need 
sumpin' to brace us up. Jap an' I have cum over 
er hundred miles sence daylight, an' while dat's 
67 



Songs and Stories 

no long ride fur us, you kno' we bleeged ter hab 
sumpin' ter run on,' he sed laffin'. 

** Lor', sonny, you jes' orter seed me hustle er- 
roun' ! An' whiles I wuz fixin' 'im sumpin' to 
eat, he tole me all erbout it, how he hed jined 
Lopez an' sailed frum Key West, an' all erbout 
de fights he hed. An' he sed dat he wuz de 
onlies' one left ob all his men, an' dat he owed 
his life to Jap's heels an' er Spanish gineral. He 
sed dat when he stormed Las Pozas, his men run 
ober de Spaniards an' whupped 'em in er twinkle, 
an' dat sum ob his men begun to hang de Span- 
iards in return fur hangin' sum ob dairs de yeah 
befo', but when he foun' it out he tried to stop it 
an' he run in an' cut down de Spanish gineral 
dat dey had hung up, but dat his men got mad 
eben wid him an' mutinied an' he hed to draw 
his pistols on his men an' cut down de officer at 
de point ob his guns, 'kase he sed he wan't fight- 
in' er hangin' war but er civilized war. 

** An' he sabed de officer's life an' exchanged 
'im an' saunt 'im home. De papers wuz right in 
sayin'Marse Henry wuz arterwards oberpowered 
an' hed ter surrender, an' de dozen er two left 
wuz sentenced to be hanged. In vain Marse 
Henry beg 'em to shoot 'em lak soljers, but dey 
hung his men befo' his eyes, an' dey wooder 
hung him, but he bribed de officer in charge wid 
de gift ob Jap to 'low 'im to be shot and not 
hung ! 

6Z 



from Tennessee 

** De naixt mohnin' when dey led Marse Henry 
off to be shot, an' when he wuz er mile or two 
frum de lines, de gineral whose life he hed sabed 
wuz waitin' at de spot fur 'im, an' commanded 
de squad to halt, an' den he gib Marse Henry his 
side-arms an' Jap, dat he foun' de officer wid, an' 
he sed to Marse Henry : * Go ; you sabed my 
life onct at de risk ob yo' own. I returns de 
compliment.' 

** An' den Marse Henry told me how he hed 
went in de sugar bizness an' made er fortune an' 
now he cum back ergin to lib. 

***Butdat wuz fo' yeah ago, Marse Henry,' 
sez I ; * Why aint you cum home befo' or write 
us dat you still libin ?' An' den Marse Henry's 
face grew dark es he sed : * Bekase, Wash, 
Unkle Robert wrote me befo' de war wuz ended 
dat Kitty wuz married to Estes, an' — ' 

'* * Dat's a lie, Marse Henry,' 1 shouted, es I 
cum to my senses ergin an' thout ob Miss Kitty 
fur de fust time — * dat's er lie ! Ole Marster 
didn't write no sech letter es dat ! She ain't 
married yit — leastwise — dat is ter say — O, 
Marse Henry, am it nine erclock yit ? An' she 
nurver will be fur she's boun' ter die ternight, 
an' I'm waitin' out heah to kno' when to go to de 
fun'ral — po' innercentangell !' an' I 'spec' I begun 
ter cry. 

" Marse Henry look at me stern lak, an' ax me 
what I mean. Den I went back an' tole 'im all, 
69 



Songs and Stories 

an' I seed de tears run down his cheeks es I tole 
'im how she hed loved an' suffered all dese yeahs. 
An' I tole 'im 'bout de ghost scene las' night an* 
how she sobbed under de trees, an' as I tole him 
I seed 'im shake all over lak er child er sobbin', 
an' when I tole him 'bout de nurver failin' death 
signs I'd seen dis mohnin', an' dat I 'spec' right 
now she dun dead er married — 'twould be all de 
same to her — he vaulted wid one leap in de saddle 
an' I seed Jap's tail fly up es he plunged two 
spurs in his side, an' es he shot erway in de night 
I heurd 'im say sorter hard lak : ' Poller me, 
Wash, fur I'm gwinter take er hand in dat fun'- 
ral!' 

*' I jumped on er race filly ole Marster hed in 
trainin' at de lower place, an' I follered 'im wid 
my heart beatin' er drum in my breast, an' de 
wind playin' er fife in my two years ! Lor', sah, 
dat filly cud fly ! but run es she mout, dar sot 
Marse Henry allers jes' erhaid, lookin' lak er 
statue on Jap ; an' de ole hoss runnin' lak er 
swamp buck wid de pack at his heels ! Runnin', 
sah, lak he knowed whut wuz up an' dat ten 
minnits now wuz wurth yeahs termorrer ! An' 
ev'ry now an' den I'd ketch er glimpse ob Marse 
Henry's back an' heah 'im say: * Grate Gawd, 
ef I kin only git dar in time !' 

**Nobody'll urver b'leeve it," continued the 
old man, "but we broke de five-mile recurd dat 
night, she ! An' when we cum to de house it wuz 
70 



from Tennessee 

lit up frum garret to cellar, an' I cud see de guests 
in de parlors an' halls an' heah de music an' de 
lafter. But es I rid up closter, my hart sunk in 
my buzum, an' we bote pulled up wid er jerk ; 
fur dar, standin' dar in de light ob de bay winders 
wid flowers above an' belo' an' in de lace ob 
de curtains, dar stood Miss Kitty ! An' de 
orange blossums wuz in her hair, an' a man wuz 
by her side, an' dey wuz shakin' ban's wid de 
people. 

** Grate Gawd, dey wuz married ! 

*M looked at Marse Henry, spectin' to see 'im 
pale an' shaky lak I wuz, an' mighty nigh ready 
ter fall down offen his boss, but dars whar I ober- 
looked de thurrerbred dat wuz in 'im, an' stead ob 
bein' pale, de lub light wuz in his eyes, but he 
hed dat cuis hard smile on his lips datallers made 
me think ob de cocked hammer ob a hair-trigger 
durringer. 

** He spurred up clost to me an' jes' es nachul 
lak es ef he wuz tellin' me ter saddle Jap, an' jes' 
es quiet es if he wuz gwine to church, he sez : 
*Wash, be keerful now, fur you maysabe er life 
wid er level haid. I will ride up to de side porch, 
jes' whar it reaches to Jap's saddle skirts. I 
mus' speak to Kitty once mo' befo' I go back to 
Cuba foreber. Slip in an' tell her sum one wants 
to see her quickly, on de side po'ch. Go, an' 
remember your haid 1' 

** I wuz glad ernuf to go. All de sarvants wuz 
71 



Songs and Stories 

now pourin' in to shake ban's wid Miss Kitty, 
arter de white folks hed shook, an' I cum in 
nacherly wid de res'. De white folks hed stood 
back an' wuz watchin' our awkard way, an' de 
room wuz full ob flowers an' sweet sents an' 
hansum folks. 

** But Miss Kitty jes' banted me — I cudden't 
keep my eyes offen her. She wuz es butiful es 
truth in de halls ob de angels, an' yet es sad es 
sorrow at de grabe ob her fust born. She look 
lak er queen bowin' right an' left, an' her grace 
shone lak er pillar in a temple. She tried her 
bes' ter smile on us po' niggers dat had raised 
her an' lubbed her all her life, but de smile jes' 
flickered 'round her dark, sad eyes lak er April 
sunbeam tryin' to git out frum behind er March 
cloud. When she shuck ban's wid me I seen two 
tears start up in her eyes, lak little silver-side 
fish dat rise to de surface ob de lake fur air, an' 
I knowed she wuz thinkin' ob Jap an' his rider, 
an' I cudden't stan' it no longer ; I jes' stuck my 
big mouf up to her lily bloom ob a yeah an' tried 
to say it easy, but it seemed to me de folks heurd 
it ober at quartahs, er mile erway : * Gawd 
bless yo'. Miss Kitty, honey ! But cum out on 
de side po'ch, quick !' 

** Fur er secon' she looked at me lak she thort 
I wuz crazy, an' den I tried ergin, steppin' on her 
butiful dress an' little white slipper, I got up so 
close an' whispered so yearnestly : 
72 




Old Wash. 



from Tennessee 

*' ' Miss Kitty ! Miss Kitty ! ! fur Gawd's sake 
cum out on de side po'ch, quick !' 

*'She nodded her haid, an' I seed she thort 
sumbody wuz in distress, an' es I went out, I seed 
her excuse herself to de guests an' — an' — wal, 
de feller dat wuz standin' in de winder wid 'er, 
an' den she gethered her trail in her lef han' an' 
follered me out es stately es Pharo's darter fol- 
lered de niggers ob old." 

Here the old man paused, and a look of triumph 
glinted in his dim eye, as he said, ** Dar am sum 
scenes in life fixed on our mem'ry so dey git 
plainer es we gro' older, an' dis wuz one. De 
happiness ob two libes wuz at stake, an' I trim- 
bled so I cudden't think, fur I knowed a wurd too 
soon or too late or out ob place would ruined 
eb'rything. De poppin' ob er match might er 
brought on er shootin' an' de whinny ob a black 
hoss es he stood blacker in de night mout er 
turned er weddin' inter er fun'ral. 

** I glanced at de side po'ch — dar sot er black 
hossman on er steed es black es he wuz. Not er 
muscle moved, but I seed two steel-blue eyes 
shine eben in de darkness. Den out cum Miss 
Kitty, so nachul lak, an' soft an' easy : 

'* * What is it. Wash ; who wishes to see me?' 

*' I p'inted to de hossman. Den I heurd her step 

es she walked ercross to de shadder, an' den I 

heurd er voice cum outer de shadder : * Oh, 

Kitty, my darlin', have you indeed forgotten me?' 

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Songs and Stories 

*'To my dyin' day I'll see her es she heser- 
tated, tried to advance, stopped, staggered, an' 
fell into de outstretched arms ob de hossman, es 
she exclaimed pitifully : * Dear hart, I tole them 
all de time I wuz yores I' 

" An' whut you reckon Marse Henry dun ? 
He kissed dat man's wife scanlus, time an' ergin, 
an' stead ob spurrin' erway wid her lak I spected 
to see 'im do, an' lak ennybody else wooder dun, 
he jes' walked wid 'er, dead fainted es she wuz, 
right inter de parlor whar dey all wuz, an' laid her 
gently down on a sofer, an' den he turned 'round 
lak er majah gineral reviewin' troops, an' he 
said : * Unkle Robert, I have a word to say heah !' 

**Wal, sah, 'mazement wan't de wurd. De 
wimmin screamed an' de men looked lak dey 
wanted to. Eben ole Marster cudden't do nuffin' 
but stare. Estes cum to fust an' made er quick 
movement to git to de sofer whar Miss Kitty 
wuz, quiet es er spirit. But when Marse Henry 
seed 'im, his eyes flashed lak two stars, an' I 
dodged my haid spectin' to heah er pistol shot 
naixt, but I didn't, only dis frum Marse Henry, 
'an it cum from 'im lak er battery, es he laid one 
han' on er instrument dat hed bin all through de 
Cuban fight : 

** *Stan' whar you am, sah I fur I'm heah to 
settle wid you fust 1' 

''An' den he tuhned loose. Gawd, sah, he 
towered ober Estes lak er lion dat hed cum home 
74 



from Tennessee 

an' foun' er cur in his house. An' all de time 
his eyes shone lak lightnin' an' his face wuz sot 
lak er jedge's, an' his voice wuz lak er god's ! 
He pulled de forged letter out an' ole Marster 
read it, an' Miss Kitty cum to an' read it, an' he 
tole Miss Kitty how he writ to her time an' ergin 
an' at las' got dis letter. An' she cried lak her hart 
would break, an' she tole how she hed writ to 
him time an' ergin befo' she heurd he wuz dead, 
an' nurver got no letter, an' befo' I knowed it I 
jes' hollered out : ' O, hit pays to be postmaster, 
hit do!' 

*' An', sah, whut do you reckon ole Marster 
dun? He jes' hugged Marse Henry an' wrung 
his han' an' call 'im his son, an' den he got so 
mad he lost his ole haid, an' cum runnin' out in 
de hall, an' sed : * Wash ! Wash ! Bring me my 
pistols, Wash ! The forgin' villain to dare marry 
a gemman's darter !' 

*' In er minnit he cum runnin' back wid er pair 
ob durrungers in his ban's an ernudder pair in 
his eyes, an' he rushed up to Marse Henry an' 
sed : ' Henry, my son, you shan't kill 'im ! Let 
yore ole uncle hab dat pleasure. The forger ! 
Why, he married my darter, an' I thort he wuz er 
gemman !' 

*' But Estes wuz gone, gone to parts unkown. 

An' Miss Kitty wuz laffm' an' cryin', in Marse 

Henry's arms, befo' all de guests an' eb'rybody, 

an' ole Marster stop sorter sho't-lak, when he seed 

75 



Songs and Stories 

'er, fur he wa'n'tprepared fur dat, an' Marse Henry 
laffed an' pulled out ernudder paper — er little slip 
ob paper, an' den he sed : Mn de sweetness ob 
dis hour I furgib 'im, Unkle. Besides, he ain't 
married yore darter. Dis little instrument am 
jes' five yeahs de oldes'. I'm sorry, Unkle,' he 
sed wid er twinkle in he's eyes dat belied 
his appollergy, * but I married Kitty de night 
befo' I lef five yeahs ago. Heah is de li- 
cense an' dis am Squire Sanders' signature — an' — 
why hello, Squire, I'm glad to see you ergin !' es 
Squire Sanders an' all de folks he knowed flocked 
erroun' 'im to shake his han'. 

**Gawd, sah, dat wuz er happy night! But 
nuffin' wud do ole Marster but dat dey mus' be 
married ober ergin by de Piskolopium preacher, 
an' in gran' style, too. 

** So in erbout er hour Marse Henry cum out, 
dressed in de unerform ob er majah gineral, an' 
dey wuz married ergin — an de han'somes' pair 
dat eber sed yes to de preacher. An' when I 
went up to shake dey ban's, Marse Henry tell me 
to Stan' by he's side, an' den he pulliout ernudder 
paper, one jes' freshly writ, an' he read it to all 
de folks — thang Gawd, he had bought me frum 
ole Marster ! 

** An' den he turned roun' to me, nigger dat 
I wuz, an' he sed wid er tear in he's manly eye : 
* Wash, a true frien' am a jewel on de finger ob 
life. I fout too hard fur de freedom ob others to 

76 



from Tennessee 

see my bes* frien' a slave. I have bought yo* 
frum Unkle Robert, as dis bill ob sale will show. 
Take it ; you are free !' 

** I drapped at his feet an' cried an' kissed his 
han', but he pulled me up, an' es he put five big 
gol' pieces in my han' he laffed an' sed : * An' 
these are frum my wife, for valuabul assistance 
rendered at her fun'ral !' 

** An' es I kissed her sweet han', Gawd bless 
her, she looked up at Marse Henry laffm' by her 
side, an' de smile she gib him wus lak de break 
ob day in Heaben 1" 



77 



Songs and Stories 



THE WOLF HUNT ON BIG BIGBY. 

** T SEE de dudes hev got up er new sport up ter 

-■• Yakee Ian'," said old Wash the other day. 
** Dey calls it Golf huntin'. Hez it got ennything 
ter do wid wolf huntin' ?" he asked. *' Ef it hez, 
I jes' wanter say I'll go ter New Jarsey ter see it 
ergin," said the old man, as he sat down on the 
wood-pile and laughed as if he was tickled im- 
mensely. 

** Why, no, it hasn't anything to do with wolf 
hunting. Why do you ask ?" I said. 

**Wal, de names sounded sorter lak, an' de 
folks dat plays it am de same sorter fellers dat 
cum down to our home way back in de fall ob '35 
ter hunt wolves. But let me put dis ax in de 
kitchen cellar fus '," he said, as he hobbled across 
the yard. *M nurver could tell ennything wid 
er ax or er hoe starin' me in de face an' 'mindin* 
me dat man wuz made ter saw wood. 

'* Dis country ain't whut hit useter be when 

Marse Bill Young settled down on Big Bigby way 

back 'bout eighteen-twenty-fo'. You nurver seen 

sech Ian' in all yore life — de grandes' forests dat 

78 



from Tennessee 

eber sot on de face of de yearth, an' de cane sc 
big dat you bed to cut roads through it lak it wuz 
er wilderness. An' de newgroun'! Wal, sah, 
I nurver seed sich crops sence de good Lord made 
me ! Why down in de new groun' dat we cleaned 
up we didn't hafter plant but half er grain er 
cohn — 

*' Half a grain ! Why?" 

**Why, good gracious, sah, er haf er grain 
made er stalk twenty foot high ! Whut we 
wanter plant er whole grain fer, an' haf sich 
high cohn we cudden't pull it wid wun ob dese 
yeah fire ladders ! An' punkins ! Marse Bill 
Young tried 'em wun yeah in de black locus' new 
groun', an' arter dat he gin strick orders fur no- 
body ter nurver plant er punkin seed widin ten 
miles er his farm ergin." 

**Why?" I asked. The old man scratched 
his head as if pondering whether to give his rea- 
sons or not. 

*' Bekose," he said, ** de punkin vines tuck de 
plantashun, and sum ob 'em run fur miles up in 
de hills, an' de naixt spring when ole Marster 
went out ter survey an' preempt mo' Ian', he 
cum back home mad es de debbil, an' sed ebry 
mile er two fur ten miles eround, sum po' white 
folks frum de mountains bed cum out in de spring 
ob de yeah, an' whar eber dey foun' er punkin 
dey bed squatted on de Ian', scooped out de pun- 
kin, built er chimbly in wun eend, put in er door 
79 



Songs and Stories 

an* winders, an' wus libbin dar mighty cheerful 
lak an' contented twell dey cud build 'em er lit- 
tle bigger home. Ole Marster'd owned haf de 
county ef it hadn't been fur dat, sho'!" 

** Wash," I said, looking him steadily in the 
eye, ** you have gone to lying in your old age." 

** Grate Gord," he said, with a look such as 
Elijah cast on the prophets of Baal, *'thetenny 
wun should excuse me ob dat in my ole aige ! 
An' me tellin' whut I seed wid my own eyes an' 
heurd ole Marster say, too. But dat ain't heah 
nor dar. I'se tellin' you 'bout de wolf hunt. 

** Dar wuz er ole she wolf dat libbed down in 
de cane dat wuz jes' er little de bes' wolf enny 
body ebber seed. She jes' libbed on our sheep 
an' horgs, an' dar want no dorg cud bes' her. 
Ole Marster tried he's pack er houn's on 'er an' 
she cleaned 'em up in ten minits. Den Cap'n 
Jim Estes tried he's pack on 'er, and dey all cum 
home lookin' lak rigimint flags arter de battle ob 
Waterloo. Den dey raised er crowd ob de boss 
fightin'-dorgs ob de settlement — de brindled kind 
an de b'ar-fightin' kind — an' dey all hem de ole 
wolf up in de cane an' rush in ter de tune ob * Hail, 
de Conk'rin' Hero Cum,' but, bless yore soul, sah, 
in erbout five minits dey all cum out howlin' * De 
Gal I Lef Behin' Me 1' 

** Den de whole settlement riz up in arms. 
Dar wa'n't er man dar dat dat ole wolf hadn't 
wusted he's dorg, an' I've allefs noticed dat 
80 



from Tennessee 

when you hurt er man's dorg you jes* es well 
hit hees chilluns. Hit makes 'im er heap mad- 
der. We'd er whipped de British long 'fo' we 
did ef dey hed cum ober heah an' 'stead ob taxin' 
us widout misrepresentashun dey'd cuffed sum ob 
our no 'count dorgs erround. Dis whole country 
woulder riz an' whipped 'em out in three days. 
Ole Patrick Henry and Boston Massacre wooden 
er bin in it. 

'* But ole Marster wuz a jus' man, an' he sed 
dat wolf wuz er free-born 'Merican wolf, an' no 
man should ambush her an' kill 'er wid er rifle. 
She shud have er fair chance an' er fair fight ef 
she et ebry pig on hees place. Ef dey had dorgs 
good enough to kill 'er, all right ; ef dey didn't, 
she mout jes' lib on. O, ole Marster wuz er white 
man, I tells you ; an' hees wurd went in dat set- 
tlement. So dey jes' gib up an' let de ole wolf 
have it her way. 

** Not long arter dat ole Marster went to New 
York on bizness, an' ter hev er good time at de 
theaters an' sich. Ole Marster wuz er swell 
when de 'cashyun riz — but he didn't let it rise too 
often. When he come back he sorter laugh an' 
say : 

'' Washington, I've invited de New Jarsey 
huntin' club down to do up de ole wolf in de Big 
Bigby cane brake. Dey'll bring er dozen im- 
ported Roosh'n wolf houn's dat dey say am prize 
fighters, an' will rid us ob de ole witch.' 
6 8i 



Songs and Stories 



II c 



All right/ sez I. * Marster, I'll sho' see 
dat dey finds de enemy.' 

** Wal, sah, in erbout two weeks er mo' heah 
dey all cum, an' bless yore life, honey, you 
nurver did see sich swells as dey wuz. Dey hed 
on high silk hats, an' grate white collars, an' 
biled shuts and speckled cravats, an' satin vests, 
an' corduroy pants and pump-soled boots. An' 
you b'leeve whut I say .? Sho' 'nuff ! Wal, sah, 
I'll swear dey hed sho' 'nuff white folks ter wait 
on 'em ! 'Fo' Gord hit's er fac' ! Huh I Bless 
yore soul, we niggers didn't 'sociate wid dem, 
dough. Dey ain't no 'ristocratic nigger gwine 
'sociate wid secon'-class white folks. An' de 
dorgs ! Now you heurd my horn ! Dey fotch er 
dozen ob de slickes'-lookin', big-haided, flap- 
yeared, wus-lookin' houn' dorgs you eber seed, 
chained two an' two, an' er man jes' ter take 
keer ob 'em. But I 'spected sumpin wuz wrong 
soon es I seed 'em, an' dat night when Marster 
set out a decanter ob fus-class mountin' whisky 
wid lump-sugar an' mint, an' ax 'em ter take er 
drink, an' dey all 'fuse kase dey say dar ''stum- 
micks cudn' stan' sich crude licker,' an' dey 
would jes' take er little claret wine dey hed in 
dere trunks, den I knowed de whole layout cudn't 
bag er kildee. Wal, sah, dey didn't do nuffm' 
but talk erbout de pedergree ob dem houns an' 
whut hit cost ter git 'em heah, an' how menny 
wolves dey kill in Roosher in wun day, an' how 
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from Tennessee 

sabage dey wuz, and sum ob de niggers wuz 
list'nin' at de winders an' didn't hab no mo' sense 
den to b'leeve it, an' hit spread all ober de 
plantashun an' skeered de pickerninies so dey 
all sleep wid dey haids under de kiver dat 
night. 

** Wal, de naixt day ole Marster mounted 'em 
an' dey blowed dey horns an' got de houns an' 
de keeper an' went off in gran' style. I rid er 
gray mule and went erlong ter show 'em de 
game. Wal, we wa'nt no time gettin' dar, fur 
de ole wolf hed er cane swamp whar she libbed 
and wuz boss in, an' ebrybody knowed it. 

*^ Hit muster bin de wrong time ob de moon 
fur de dorgs er de right time ob de moon fur de 
wolf — ennyway we struck her in wun ob her 
wo'st moods. Hit 'peered ter me she'd been 
pinin' all her life fur er pack ob Roosh'n wolf 
houn's an' dude hunters, an' I hev no doubt ef 
she'd been axed into Delmonicky's ter name her 
bill ob fare she'd er named er dozen Roosh'n 
wolf houn's on de half shell— dem dat's got con- 
fidence in deysels an' am fat an' sassy. I can't 
'spress ter you how happy an' delighted an' highly 
complimented she wuz when she seed hunters 
hed imported 'em fo' thousand miles jes' fer her 
special benefit. Fur fear dey might think she 
wuz lackin' in perfessional kurtesy she cum out 
ob her lair, in er nice cleared place, an' met de 
furriners wid de blandes' smile. Den she back 
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Songs and Stories 

hersef ergin er clay root ter protec* her r'ar an* 
got down ter bizness. 

*' Boss, dat fight wuz soon ober. De fus' fool 
houn' dat went in she broke hees back wid wun 
snap ob her steel-trap jaws — de naixt wun got 
hees throat cut lak er razor. Dem furrin dorgs 
hed er furrin language, an' de dyin' yelp ob de 
fus' was er heabenly translashun fur de yuthers, 
an' dey lit out. Dey all went back ter Roosher 
by way ob de Norf Pole an' de ismus of Cant- 
Ketchem — an' dey went in er hurry. De dudes 
got mad an' called an' hollered, but dey wa'nt er 
furrin houn' in de county in two hours, 

** But de fun hed jes' begun. De ole lady bein' 
diserp'inted, got b'ilin' mad. She kerried de wa* 
inter dudedom. She run de keeper up er black- 
gum tree and den lit into de hunters — an' you 
orter seed 'em cum outer dat swamp. Some ob 
'em didn't stop runnin' fer ten miles ! De ole 
lady fit lak she 'membered 'bout sucklin' two 
genuine white men onc't, way back in de days 
ob Unkle Rum'lus an' Unkle Remus, an' she 
know'd whut de right kind ob article wuz, an' 
now in her old aige ter be played off on by er lot 
ob counterfeits on humanity an' imported dorgs 
wuz too much. De darkies on de place say dey 
heurd de keeper up in de tree prayin' in French 
all night. 

** De naix't day arter we got 'em off by de 
fus' stage, ole Marster lacter laf hesef ter death, 
84 



from Tennessee 

an' he say he gwineter petishun congress terput 
de ole wolf on de flag by de side ob de 'Merican 
eagle. 

** But how youreckinwegotdatolewolfatlas'? 
Why, mean' er nur'r nigger went possum huntin' 
wun night wid three good dorgs, an' we got her 
up thinkin' we hed de bes' coon in de swamp. 
You know er nigger'Il fight all night wid de debbil 
ef bethink it's er coon er 'possum, an' twixt us 
all we manage ter beat de ole lady ter death. 
When we kilt her an' struck er light an' seed 
whut we hed, we drapped her an' got outer dar 
faster'n we went in. Hit skeers meter think uv 
it now ! What big things sum folks do widout 
intendin' it!" 



85 



Songs and Stories 



GRAY GAMMA. 

** T AIN^T nurver tole you 'bout dat boss race down 
^ to Asbwood, wben Marse Bill Young bet me 
ergin two tbousan' dollars ob er Missippy gem- 
man's money, has I ?" asked old Wasb the other 
night, after he had come in to tell me the young 
Jersey heifer had found a calf in the meadow lot 
that day. **Wal, sab, I've seed many er race, 
but dat wuz de mos' interestines' one, frum my 
p'int ob view, dat I ebber seed, 'kase I wuz de 
principalist stakes, an' dey stood me on er stump, 
an' nuthin' but dat filly's grit saved me frum 
bein' a dead nigger in Missippy terday, 'stead ob 
a eminently 'spectable cullered gemman frum de 
race-boss state ob Tennessee. 

**Ihad er mighty good marster — wus Marse 
Bill Young — an' he wuz de fust man ter bring 
thurrerbreds to de country. Ain't I neber tole 
you 'bout dat bay colt Firefly, by Dan Rice, out 
ob Margerite, by 'Merican 'Clipse ? Heish ! Long 
es I bin wid you, I ain't neber tole you 'bout dat 
colt ? For de Lawd's sake ! 

** Wal, sah, he wuz de bes' t'ree-year-ole I 
86 



from Tennessee 

eber put er shoe on. Fus' dam by 'Merican 
*Clipse ; second dam by Timoleon ; third dam 
by—" 

** Never mind about his dams,'* I remarked, as 
I gave the old man a cut of '* Williamson County 
Twist,'* which I always i<ept in the drawer for 
him ; ** just go on with the race." 

**Wal, sah, I had er mighty good marster— 
wuz Marse Bill Young — an' he wuz de fust 
man to bring thurrerbreds to de country, es I 
wuz sayin'. He didn't hab but one fault, an' 
dat wuz he'd bet ennything in de wurl' he 
had, 'cept his wife an' chilluns, on his own 
bosses. He neber did think enny ob his own 
bosses could be beat, but he cum mighty nigh 
changin' his 'pinion 'bout dat thing onc't, an' 
losin' erbout de valu'blest nigger in Murry 
county to boot. Dat nigger wuz me. Mind you, 
I ain't blowin' my own horn — nobody eber heurd 
me doin dat — but I'm jes' tellin' you what Marse 
Bill Young said hissef. 

**I was de blacksmith fur de plantashun, an' 
shod all de thurrerbreds. An' right now I can 
gib any ob dese here new-fangled hoss-shoers er 
lesson er two, kase we knowed how ter shoe 
bosses in dem days; ef I hadn't I wouldn't er 
bin in dis state terday. 

** Wal, sah, 'bout long in Febrery — 'way back 
in de forties — dar cum er gemman frum Missippy 
wid er string er thurrerbreds gwine to Nashville 
87 



Songs and Stories 

fur de spring races. De Lawd sake ! Dey used 
ter hang up purses in dem days ! Why, dis same 
mair, Gray Gamma, dat I'm tellin' you 'bout, 
won forty thousan' dollars fur ole Marster in 
one purse — won it in er walk — but, bless yer 
soul — ole Marster spent it in er fly ! He wuz er 
white gemman ! Munny wa' nt what he wuz livin' 
fur. He wuz livin' ter race bosses. 

** Wal, sah, ez I wuz sayin', all de gemmen dat 
passed thru de country in dem days, befo' de rail- 
roads, jes' went out and stopped at ole Marster's 
— de common folks put up at de hotel — an' so, ez 
I wus sayin', de Missippy man he put up at ole 
Marster's too, wid all his bosses an' niggers an' 
teams an' borrows fur to borrow de track wid, 
when dey get to Nashville. 

*' Wal, sah, dey had a mair in dat string frum 
Missippy dat dey laid great stress on. De Mis- 
sippy nigger tole me in conferdence she could out- 
run her shadder wid one leg tied up — an' she 
cud ! How did I know ? Wal, de truf is, me an' 
de Missippy nigger gib her an' Firefly er midnight 
trial one moonlight night fur er poun' er Tennes- 
see terbacco, while ole Marster an' de owner 
wuz playin' poker fer keeps in de billiard room. 
Dey called de mare Mary Lef, an' all I know is 
she lef me an' Firefly dat night jes' lak we wuz 
er pair er mud muels stuck in er clay bank. 
Jimminy ! how she could run ! 

** De nex' day ole Marster cum ter me lookin' 
88 



from Tennessee 

sorter worried — fur he thout er heap er me — an' 
he said : 

***Wash, I'm feared I played de mischief las' 
night/ sez he. 

** * How so, Marster ?' says I. 

*'*Well, Wash, you know dey can't nobody 
bluff me when it comes to my bosses. Dey am 
as good as dey make 'em. An' all I've got ter 
say ter you is dat I called de Majah's bluff las' 
night when he talked erbout Mary Lef beatin' 
Firefly. I bet him you an' Firefly ergin two 
thousan' dollars an' Mary Lef dat he couldn't 
do it — dat's all — an' ef Firefly can't win, you jes' 
es well make up your mind to tell us all good-bye. 
De race comes off day after termorrer, an' er 
gem'man don't gib his word butonc't. You may 
shoe de colt termorrer ebenin',' an' he walk off 
es onconcerned ez ef he wuz tellin' me ter go an' 
kill hogs. 

** But great sakes ! Whut er knot riz in my 
throat ! I didn't mind it ef I'd only had er dog's 
chance — but I done seed what de mair could do — 
an' I knowed dey wuz playin' er game on Marster, 
an' dey knowed it, too. An' me ter leave Dinah 
an' de babies an' ole Tennessee an' all I had on 
sech a chance es dat ? Wal, sah, I jes' went off 
an' cried. I knowed it wa'nt no use ter go an' tell 
Marster all 'bout what me an' de Missippy nigger 
done, 'kase de debbil hissef couldn't make him 
break his wurd — an' I'd er got er cowhidin' ter 
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Songs and Stories 

boot. I jes' made up my mind dat all dey wuz 
in life wuz ober fer Wash. 

** Wal, sah, when de news spread, an' Dinah 
heurd it, darwas er scene. She 'lowed she'd go 
an' beg Marster ter let her an' de babies go too, 
an' I nurver will fergit de night we went up to de 
big house — me an' Dinah — to beg Marster not ter 
sep'rate us. Wal, sah, he cum out on de po'ch 
es tall an' dignified es ef he owned de yearth — 
but I knowed he had a warm heart fur all dat — 
an' Dinah wuz cryin' an' I was mighty silent, 
an' Dinah said : 

*** Marster, please don't sep'rate us, but jes' 
put me an' de babies up, too,' an' she could say 
no more. 

*' Marster looked sorter troubled, lak he hadn't 
thout erbout de thing befo', an' he walked ter de 
drawin' room an' said quietly lak : 

'"Majah Fellows, will you step heah er mo- 
ment?' 

**An' de Missippy gem'man step' out on de 
po'ch an' we step back in de shadder, an' ole 
Marster sez, sez he : 

'^ ' Majah, I wuz a little hasty in my bet the other 
night. I had fergot dis boy had er young wife 
an' two chilluns. I have neber sep'rated a man 
an' his wife — in fact, sah, neber sold one ob my 
niggers — an' fur de sake ob common humanity I 
would like to amend my bet, if ergreeable ter 
you.' 

90 



from Tennessee 

'** state your amendment, sah/ said de Mis- 
sippy man, coldly. 

'**The condition of our match, sah,' said ole 
Marster, quietly, *wuz four-mile heats, an' two 
thousan' against my nigger. I kno' yer mair is 
de fastest, but I believe Firefly can outlast her. 
He is bred to stay, an' de only chance I have to 
win is to comply with the four-mile condition. 
But, in order not to sep'rate this boy an' his wife, 
I will make the distance only a mile an' a half, 
an' in case you win I'll put up the woman an' 
her two children an' er thousan' dollars in gold 
ergin the boy alone, that my three-year-old filly, 
Gray Gamma, will beat your mair, Mary Lef, at 
the same distance.' 

***Sence you wish it, sah, so be it,' said de 
Majah, * but ' — an' hit made my blood bile when I 
heurd him add — * it must also be added that the 
winner of the last race gets both horses con- 
testin'.' 

" Ole Marster flushed, 'kase it looked lak de 
Missippy man wanted de yearth. It wa'nt so 
bad to lose me an' Dinah, but I knowed ole 
Marster didn't wanter run no risk 'bout losin' 
de filly, an' when he said * all right, sah,' I knowed 
he done it jes' fur our sake. But when he men- 
tioned Gray Gamma my heart give er leap, fur 
I knowed her blood wuz es pyore es de icicle dat 
hangs on Dinah's temple, an' es hot es de hart- 
draps dat flows thru' Juno's veins — fur I heurd 
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Songs and Stories 

ole Marster say it menny er time. She had de 
meanes' temper in creashun, an' would hab her 
way er die. She wuz mighty nigh sp'iled in er 
two-year-old form an' hadn't been raced sence ; 
but she 'peered to hab got ober it, an' I heurd de 
trainer tell ole Marster de Lawd only knowed 
how fas' she could run. Arter we went home 
I tole Dinah all erbout de filly, an' dat night 
we rastled wid de angel in pra'ar — we prayed dat 
de angel might take de crotchets outen de filly's 
head — we knowed she'd do de rest. 

** Wal, sah, when de day cum, de whole neigh- 
borhood turned out. Ole Marster put me on er 
stump an' de Missippy gem'man put er bag ob 
gold beside me, an' Firefly an' Mary Lef come 
up an' wuz soon erway. Spite ob de fac' dat I 
knowed we had no chance, my heart jes' lak ter 
break out er my buzzum. I saw Dinah cryin' 
in de wagon whar she an' de babies wuz, an' 
den I looked at ole Marster — he wuz jes' smokin' 
er seegar lak he wuz lookin' at er heat ergin 
time, an' sez I, ' sho'ly he ain't got no heart,' but 
I knowed better befo' de race wuz ober. Firefly 
wuz game an' staid wid de mair — I cu'd see he 
wuz better at de mile dan he wuz at de half, an' 
better a quarter furder on dan he wuz at de mile, 
an' I seed what er fool I wuz not ter let ole Marster 
make it fo' miles ; an' jes' es I begin ter think an' 
hope dat Firefly would beat her ennyway, Mary 
Lef's rider went to de whip, de mair made er 
92 



from Tennessee 

spurt an' pushed her nose erhead, I heurd er 
shout, an' I b'longed to de Missippy man ! 

** I got offen de stump. I cudn't see which 
way ter go, I wuz cryin' so. Ole Tennessee 
neber looked so sweet ter me befo'. De wheat 
fiel's looked greener an' de cabins whiter an' de 
hills had a charm I neber had know'd befo'. I 
cudn't hardly walk twell I heurd ole Marster say : 
* Wash, you am de property ob Majah Fellows,' 
jes' lak he wuz er gibin' erway er dog, an' sez I 
to myself, * sho'ly ole Marster is crazy — he ain't 
got no soul.' An' I leaned ergin de stump. Den 
I heurd him say : 

'' 'Majah, while yore mair is coolin' out I'll ask 
yore permission to let this boy change my filly's 
shoes — he has bin my blacksmith, you kno'.' 

*'*Sartenly, sah,' said de Majah. 

** An' right dar is whar Marster had sense an' 
I didn't. It wuz a cold day an' de groun' wuz 
nearly frozen, an' de track wuz slick. An' 
Marster said to me at de shed : * Select er very 
light but rough set ob shoes, cork 'em lightly all 
erround — I'm surprised Mary Lef's owner can't 
see dat her plates are too slick fur ice.' An' den 
he said, sorter smilin' : *You needn't look so 
solemn, you'll be berried on dat hill yit.' Wal, 
I dun lak he said, and dat wus one time I sho' 
did my bes' at shoein' — an' all de time I wuz 
prayin' fur Gray Gamma ter go off right. When 
I wuz through, Marster look her ober an' gib her 
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Songs and Stories 

an apple an' patted her neck an' he buckled de 
girth hissef. 

** When de filly cum out an' derace wuz called 
I noticed Marster wuz a changed man — he wuz 
no longer careless lookin' — he throw erway his 
seegar — he see ebrything ; yet he laugh an' joke. 
I follered his tall form es he went up de stretch 
to gib de jockey orders, an' es he passed de wagin 
whar Dinah wuz cryin', sez he : * Come, girl, 
don't be cryin' dar ; hit's prayin' you need— pra'- 
ars dat de filly gits off right. Ef she do you needn't 
stay twell de race is ober — jes' take de chillun 
an' go on back to de cabin,' an' he stalked on 
an' me er follerin' him so dazed I cudn't hardly 
walk. 

**To my dyin' day I'll neber furgit de look dat 
wuz in ole Marster's eye when he went up to de 
boy dat wuz on Gray Gamma. 

***Jim,' sez he, * gimme dat whip,' an' he 
throwed de rawhide ober de fence. * Dis mair 
needs pettin' in dis race — not whippin'. Now 
look at me,' an' his steel-blue eyes looked lak ole 
Marster cud look at times ; * dis race is mine ef 
you let dis filly get off at fust. Don't cross her ; 
don't stop her; don't draw yer rein. She'll set 
de pace — jes' you set still an' guide her. Do 
you heah ? ' 

** * Yes, Marster,' an' de starter called 'em to de 
scratch. 

** My heart beat lak a drum. I cudn't hardly 
94 



from Tennessee 

breathe ; I cudn't stan', an' I sot down on de 
groun*. I knowed ebrything depended on de 
start, dat de filly wuz lak er spoilt gal, an' ef 
erlowed her own way she'd go wid de joy an' de 
bound of er angel, but ef checked she mout sulk 
all through de race. I neber took my eyes offen 
her, an' when dey said * Go !' at de fust trial, I 
seed her wheel an' shoot erway lak er beam ob 
sunlight, an' all at onc't my strength come back 
an' I jumped up an' sez I : * Thank God ! I'll 
die in ole Tennessee yit !' 

**Butdeyuddermair wuz fas', an' when de rider 
seed Gray Gamma's tactics he jes' turned her 
loose — an' she dun jes' lak she dun to de colt — 
crep' up ter de filly's flank, up ter her saddle, up 
ter her haid, an' sez I, * Is she gwinter beat er 
ennyhow ?' 

** Hit's been fifty-odd year," said the old man, 
as he looked away off in meditation, "but dat 
picture is branded in my mind es plain terday es 
ef I seed it now. I ken see eben how de sky an' 
de clouds looked, an' de outline ob dem two 
bosses es dey went nose an' nose eround dat track. 
Hit 'peered lak er hour befo' dey went de mile, 
an' I dreaded de time I knowed wuz comin' 
when de rider ob de Missippy mair wud go to his 
whip. He dun it at de quarter pos', an' thinks I, 
* now I'm gone 1 Missippy will come wid er bolt !' 
But Gord bless yore soul, honey, Gray Gamma 
hed er bolt, too, an' when de mair tried ter go by 
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Songs and Stories 

her de boy on Gray Gamma jes' leaned ober 
an' touch her gently lak wid de spur in de flank 
an' she jes' grappled de frozen groun' wid dem 
corks, an' shot her naik ahead, an' I jumped up 
an' down, an' hollered Halleluyer ! Halleluyer ! 
I'll lib an' die in ole Tennessee !' An' Gray 
Gamma ? — she seemed ter git better. She seemed 
ter fly ! It look ter me lak she neber touched 
de yearth fer er quarter ob er mile ! I run to 
de wire at de stump, de same stump I cried on 
befo', an' I jumped on it lak er game rooster on 
er barn fence, an' I hollered till dey heurd me at 
de quarters, two miles erway: * Glory halle- 
luyer ! — Come home. Gray Gamma !' 

** An' she cum — de sweetest sight dis nigger 
eber seed. She cum lak er bloomin' skule gal 
playin' * Puss in de corner ' in low neck an' short 
sleeves, wid roses on her breast, mornin' on her 
cheeks an' stars in her eyes, an' makin' er run 
fur de home base ! She cum lak ten camp 
meetin's in full blast — an' me jes' got religun ! 
She cum lak whole regimen's marchin' ober kittle 
drums — an' me de drum-majah ! She cum lak 
de charriut ob de Lawd in de pillar ob fiah — glory 
halleluyer ! 

**Wal, sah, all I rickerlec' is dat I had her 
'roun' de neck an' wuz kissin' de star in her 
furred, an' I look an' dair stood ole Marster, sorter 
smilin', wid his eyes sorter moist, an' Dinah 
tryin' ter kiss his ban's, an' he cum an' put 
96 



from Tennessee 

five twenty-dollar gold pieces in my han', an* 
sez he : * Stop yer blubberin', yer idjut, an' go 
ter yer cabin ; yer don't know er race boss ef 
you'd meet 'im in de road, an' de naixt time you 
hab a moonlight race wid my bosses pick out one 
dat will teach folks how ter race ergin ole Tennes- 
see !" 



97 



Songs and Stories 



THE MULE RACE AT ASHWOOD. 

(The old fairs in Maury county sometimes ended 
in a mule race, in which every effort was made 
by the spectators to retard the progress of the 
steeds and make them fly the track. Old Wash's 
account below is not exaggerated.) 

** 'T^ALK erbout trotters an' pacers bein' cheap/' 
1 said old Wash the other night, after am- 
bling in to know if it was true that Coxey 's army 
was only a scheme to put the colored man back 
into slavery, " but you orter seed how cheap 
thurrerbreds got in Murry county way back in 
'35. We used 'em es dams fur Tennessee mules, 
an' dey made de bes' mule in de wurl. A Ten- 
nessee mule bred dat away am a leetle de bes' 
pullin' thing dat eber was hitched to de yudder 
end ob a trace chain. Pull ? Why^ I've seed 'em 
die in de traces, tryin' ter pull er waggin outen 
de mud. I hup I may die ef I ain't seed one pull 
her fore shoulders down ter er foot ob her hips. 
I disremember dat mule conspicuously, 'kase we 
cut part ob her tail off arter dat an' sold her ter 
er circus fur er geeraffe. 

*' An' run ! Wal, sah, you orter seed dat race 
98 



from Tennessee 

at de ole Ashland track one fall ! Dey got up er 
mule race, an* ole Marster tole me ef I'd ride his 
gray mule an' win he'd let me marry er gal dat 
belonged on ernudder plantashun, an' one dat I'd 
bin pinin' fur fur er long time, an' ole Marster 
didn't want me ter marry her 'kase she wasn't 
in de fam'bly. In dem days, sah, we folks ob de 
fust qualerty hed ter be mighty 'tickler how we 
marri'd outen de fambly. I might es well add, 
right heah," said the old man, **that arter I got 
'er I quit pinin' fur 'er. I've noticed it's ginerally 
dat way. But you wanter know how dat mule 
wuz bred ? Fust dam by Bosting, secon' dam 
by 'Clipse, third dam by Diomeed, fourth dam 
by Flyin' Children, fifth dam by Darley's Ara- 
bian, an' fur twenty more dat mule went on. 
On her sire's side she traced all over Spain 
an' Portugal, Egypt an' de Holy Lan', an' 
clar up ter de Prince ob Wale hissef. Talk 
erbout er mule not bein' bred right ! Oh, we had 
'em in dem days. Thurrerbreds was sho' cheap. 
'*When de race cum off, I made dat mule run 
lak I 'spected to find de gal hung up at de wire. 
De yudder mule wuz bred spang up, too, an' we 
wuz sailin' erlong pritty briefly — yes, pritty 
briefly — wid me er little erhead an' dead sho' ob 
winnin'. I wuz jes' wunderin' which one ob his 
las'-year coats ole Marster would gib me ter 
marry in an' if Mistis wouldn't bake er cake, 
when all at onc't my mule — " 

LoFC. 99 



Songs and Stories 

** Come, come/' I said, *' don't make up any- 
thing. Tell it just as it was. ' ' 

The old man really looked hurt as he remarked : 
*' I see yo' ain't fully posted on mules, 'specially 
thurrerbred mules. Why, dey am as different 
frum hosses as de spirit ob a bat am frum de 
ghost ob Ophelia. Did you eber see one run 
erway ? Now, er hoss runs erway lak er gem- 
man. He jes' gits skeered an' runs erhead. 
He'll run ober er court-house or ennything else, 
but he'll jes' keep on runnin'. But you jes' 
watch er mule run erway. De fus' thing he do 
is to turn right roun' an' throw you out. Ef he's 
gwine north, an' de whole wurl' gwine north wid 
him, an' he take er noshun ter run erway, he jes' 
turn roun' an' run souf. Don't make no diff'r- 
ence ter him whut's behin' him ; he's gwine back. 
He lubs de past better'n ennything I ebber seed. 
He'd ruther turn roun' an' run back into Sodom 
an' Gomorrah dan ter go straight erhead into glory. 
Now, when er hoss runs erway he's sho' to hurt 
hissef ; hit's very seldom he hurt ennything but 
hissef an' de vehickle. He'll bus' his head or 
break er leg, or skin hissef up, or do sumthin'. 
But you jes' show me er man dat eber seed er 
mule hurt hissef when he run erway. No, sah ! 
Hit's de folks in de vehickle he's after ; an' he 
allers gits 'em. He's de same way erbout kickin'. 
Watch er hoss kick you. He fus' lay back his 
years, an' switch his tail, an' gib you fair warnin'; 

lOO 



from Tennessee 

den, if you don't git outen de way, he kick you 
ober like a gemman. But do er mule do dat ? 
No, sah ! When he gits ready to send you to 
kingdum cum he puts on his most fetchin' airs. 
You'd think kickin' de las' thing he gwinter do. 
You needn't be oneasy when you see him switch 
his tail an' back his years an' sorter dance up 
an' down behin' ; he's jes' playin' den. De time 
fur you ter pray am when you see him behavin' 
hissef ; dat's de time when he means bizness. 
When he looks love outen his eyes, an' his years 
pints to de pure, blue sky erbove, pintin' sinners 
to dat better Ian', den's de time fur you ter stay 
outen his way. 

*' Wal, sah, dat's de way de mule done. He wuz 
jes' forty feet frum de wire when de idee struck 
him dat he wuz gwine de wrong way. Dey 
wusn't nuthin' dair ter skeer him — nuthin' but er 
straight track. 'Twas part ob de program fur 'em 
to try an' skeer him all de way, an' de boys hed 
stationed er cinnerman bear an' er Italian at de 
fus' quarter, thinkin' dey'd sho' bolt an' cum 
back. Now, er mule hates de smell ob a bear 
like he do de thought of respecterbility, but he 
went on by 'em like he neber seed 'em. At de 
haf de boys had turned a cohered wagon ober — 
'nuff to skeer a saddle an' blanket — but my mule 
went on wid his tail up — no skeer dair ! At de 
three-quarters dey turned some firecrackers loose, 
an' thinks I, he'll sho' bolt now ; but dey both 

lOI 



Songs and Stories 

went on jes' like dey bin fed on firecrackers all 
dair life. At de distance flag de brass ban' got 
in de middle ob de track an' turned loose all dair 
horns an' drums playin' ' Run, Nigger, Run — de 
Patterole Ketch Ye' — nuff to turn back de debbil 
hissef — but my mule run ober de fellow wid de 
kittle drum, stepped on de drum head an' carried 
it erlong pierced wid his lef hin' leg ; but jes' as 
dey got to thirty feet ob de wire, wid eb'rything 
clear, an' it look lak ef dey tried to stop eben 
dey'd slide under, dey both conkluded dey wuz 
gwine de wrong way, an' both ob 'em whirled. 
But I wuz 'termined not to git beat, an' dey said 
both ob us — me an* de yuther rider — lef de saddle 
'bout de same time an' sailed through de air like 
er pair of turkey buzzards on er windy day. I 
went under de wire fus' an' landed on de hard 
groun' on my head an' mouth, fur which I wuz 
mighty thankful, fur if I'd landed on my feet I'd 
er broke my legs sho'. I got up an' ole Marster 
cum up lafifm' an' said : * Wash, de gal's yourn, 
you beat de yudder nigger by er lip — a close 
shave — but you went under de wire fus'. You've 
got de bes' head fur er race I eber seed,' he said, 
es he felt my head to see if it wus busted. An' 
ernudder man laughed an' said, when he looked 
at my mouth, all swelled up : * Hardly er lip. 
Colonel, fur ef he had, he'd er left de yudder 
nigger at de las' quarter !' 
*'ButI got de gal 1" 

I02 



from Tennessee 



THE TENNESSEE GIRL AND THE PACING 
MARE. 

THE Tennessee girl and the pacing mare are a 
pair I can never separate in my thoughts. 
When I think of the one I see the other, and when 
I see the other I think of the one. They go to- 
gether much better than Jonathan and David, or 
Damon and Pythias; and they travel along life's 
road with a great deal less friction than either 
would go with a male companion. They are a 
pair of females entirely bent on femininity. 

The bottom may drop out of the universe ; 
political parties may rise and fall ; hades may boil 
out of Mount Vesuvius, and horses of the male 
persuasion may break the records of the world, 
but the Tennessee girl and the old mare are only 
bent on preserving the chastity of the female race 
as they shuffle along down a sunshiny pike to 
carry a hank of yarn and a brace of spring 
chickens to another pair of the same gender living 
about three miles further on. 

The girl is demure, modest and sweet. The 
old mare is demure, modest and fleet. The girl 
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Songs and Stories 

is shyer than a sixteen-year-old nymph clad in 
a petticoat of sea foam, before the mirror of the 
Olympian gods. The old mare is more timid 
than a fawn in a herd of buffalo. The Seventh 
Regiment Band, in full regalia, could not march 
by the damsel with enough eclat to make her 
peep out from under her sunbonnet long enough 
to see the color of their uniforms ; and forty 
thousand of them could not make the old mare 
look around unless their martial music happened 
to stampede the shuffling sorrel offspring ambling 
behind her — then she'd ride over the regiment to 
get to it. So would the girl. 

But the sorrel offspring does not really belong 
in this duo. He is looked on as a necessary evil 
which is liable to happen in the early spring days 
of April or May. When the hazy gleam settles 
over the landscape in the twinkling glow of au- 
tumn's aftermath, he goes out of their life and 
existence. Perhaps he has grown too large ; 
perhaps too saucy ; perhaps too much of a man 
to be allowed the companionship of this pair who 
worship at the shrine of Vesta and yet live in the 
hope of one day making it uncomfortable for a 
male man and his unregenerate offspring when 
cleaning-up day comes round ! In the fall, then, 
the colt will be missing. But the girl rides on and 
says nothing ; while the old mare merely paces 
along in a gradually increasing ratio of avoirdupois 
till next spring. Then you may meet a trio again. 
104 



from Tennessee 

The Tennessee girl is a born rider. No silk 
hat with half a white goose-feather adorns her 
shapely head. No long riding skirt streams un- 
der her horse's flanks, or flutters out behind to 
frighten the steeds of unsuspecting passers-by. 
No gloves that reach to her elbows. No silver- 
mounted English whip that abruptly stops in its 
make-up about the place you think the whip 
ought to begin ; no goggle glasses, hair , in a 
Psyche knot, and look a la hauteur — no ; that isn't 
the Tennessee girl on the old mare ; that's the 
city girl that's riding for fun. The girl we are 
talking about never got on a horse for fun in her 
life. 

A snow-white sunbonnet with a few stray 
curls peeping out from under. It is tied with a 
double bow-knot under the chin and two streamers 
play in the wind behind. A blue calico skirt 
comes down nearly far enough to hide a pretty 
foot that's got a good hold on a solid steel stirrup. 
Where is the other foot, you ask .? Come, don't 
be too inquisitive. The Tennessee girl has two ; 
the other, with its necessary attachment, has got 
a grip on the pommel of the saddle — and a Co- 
manche princess can't stick there tighter. A pair 
of woolen mittens cover chubby hands that know 
how to hold bridle reins — and there she goes, one 
hundred and forty-five pounds of solid " gal " in 
a saddle her great-grandmother rode over " from 
North Callinain." 

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Songs and Stories 

The Tennessee girl is the best female rider — ah! 
beg your pardon, equestrienne they call it now — 
in the world. And yet nobody ever saw such 
riding ! She rolls in the saddle with every motion 
of the old mare. She is the most unstable-look- 
ing thing in the saddle, to be as solid as she is, 
I ever saw. She sits her horse like a forty-ton 
flatboat on the roll of a wave, and yet she goes 
ahead like a graceful yacht in mid-ocean on the 
crest of a billow. She will fool you to death. It 
is painful for a tenderfoot to behold her ride. His 
first thought will be to rush up and save her 
from falling off ; his second to stand and see her 
fall — a mishap no one has ever yet seen, not un- 
less the double girth broke. Down the pike she 
goes — while the spectator is waiting to pick her 
up — following every curve and rolling with every 
roll of the pacing mare, all the time in unison, 
toppling but never falling, swaying but never 
breaking, easy, jolly, joyous, forgetful, unthink- 
ing, unaffected ; she can ride out of a storm like 
Diana, pace home in a curve-line of beauty, or 
gallop with her brother over the field like a 
princess of the Montezumas. 

And don't you discount on the old pacing mare. 
As sleepy as she looks and as unconcerned and 
all that, she is the deadest game thing under 
heaven ! She carries the blood of the desert — 
the memory of fifty Derbys in her veins ! She is 
the same the world over, and would just as soon 
io6 



from Tennessee 

throw speed amid the sand hills of Sahara as 
among the roses of Andalusia. She'll bring race 
mules if bred to a jack, throw '* B B" bread- 
winners if mated with mustangs, and give us 
world-beating Pointers when bred to her equal. 
She carries the girls to church like a three-year- 
old, takes the old lady to meetin' like a forty- 
year-old, carries the old man on a nightly fox 
hunt like Tam O'Shanter's *' Meg " with a witch 
at her tail, and yet brings him home, when he 
gets drunk, at daylight, as slowly and solemnly 
as the burial of Sir John Moore. She will kill a 
dozen mules in a plow, would make a sway-back 
elephant ashamed of himself when she backs her 
ears and throws herself in the collar of a stalled 
wagon, and on general principles will pull any- 
thing she is hitched to, from a log wagon to a 
sucker's leg, and in her friskier moods will throw 
anything from a race horse to a horse race ! 

She eats less, works more, lives longer, says 
less, than any animal under the sun, and springs 
more unexpected speed from unexpected places 
than a dozen jack-rabbits in a sedge field ! She 
is homely in her old-fashioned ways, yet glorious 
in her grit ! Leggy in her angularity, yet beau- 
tiful in her strength. Solemn in her Scotch-Irish 
honesty, yet brilliantly humorous when she takes 
the bit and tries to pace a 2:10 clip in her old age. 
Modest and gentle as a nun's dream of her first 
love, yet as fiery and aggressive as a helmeted 
107 



Songs and Stories 

knight in an honor quarrel. Homely she may be, 
plain, painfully plain, and yet to me, when I 
know what is slumbering there, she is 

Moulded as trim as a gatling gun, 
And full to the brim of its fire 1 

Nothing can stop the Tennessee girl and the 
old mare. Nature, recognizing their claims, keeps 
the sun shining, the sweet birds singing, the winds 
playing and the brooks dancing when the precious 
pair start down the pike. Even the toll-gates — 
brazen evidences of corporations and cruel ob- 
structionists of freedom and unrestrained prog- 
ress — fail to stop them. 

*' Your toll, please,'* said the gate-keeper, as a 
pair of them came to a halt, recently, when the 
gate swung up. 

** But do we have to pay toll ?" asked the fair 
rider, with a look so full of pretty injured inno- 
cence as to make the hard-hearted collector in- 
wardly swear he would never collect another toll 
as long as he lived. 

*' Certainly, Miss; five cents, if you please; 
here are the regulations *' — 

A carriage and horses, . . . 25c 

A wagon and team, . . . . 15c 

A buggy and horse, .... loc 

A man and horse, 5c 

108 



from Tennessee 

** A man and a horse ! Why, we are a gal 
and a mare," said the Tennessee girl, as she rode 
on through, after casting a withering look on the 
abject keeper, who was trying to skulk off and 
hang himself. 



109 



Songs and Stories 



**DICK." 

HIS real name was Richard Augustus Wash- 
ington La Fayette — that was all. He 
ought to have had a surname, but he didn't, for 
he was just a little darkey belonging to Major 
Richard Augustus Robinson, one of the aristocrats 
of Middle Tennessee, thirty-odd years ago, and 
who counted his negroes as he did his flocks — on 
a hundred hills. According to custom, Dick's 
surname should have been Robinson — Richard 
Augustus Washington La Fayette Robinson — 
only nobody had taken time to think of it, and 
Dick was too little to think for himself. 

** And as for hunting up names for my negroes," 
remarked the Major on several occasions, ** it's as 
much as I can do to name my colts and register 
my Shorthorns." 

But Richard Augustus was all right. His 
** mammy " had a literary turn of mind, and 
when Dick was a year old she named him for her 
master, Washington and La Fayette — " the three 
greates' men dat eber libbed" — as she herself 
declared ; and then, having duly notified her 
no 



from Tennessee 

world at the ** quarters," she promptly forgot all 
about Dick and his name, too, in the more inter- 
esting event of declaring a pair of dividends — ■ 
twin dividends, as it were — for the Robinson 
plantation. These required two more names — -a 
mental task too much even for a person of her 
well-known intellectuality, and so, unfortunately 
for Richard Augustus Washington La Fayette, in 
the mental disgust that followed, she boiled down 
the greatest men in history into — Dick. 

And Richard was himself on all occasions. 
With him life was one perpetual Sunday, even 
after he grew big enough to leave ** old Granny,'* 
the wrinkled and wizardly witch of an octo- 
genarian whose duty it was to take care of the 
two score pickaninnies of various ages, " at the 
quarters," while their mothers helped out in the 
crops. And what glorious fun Dick had, picking 
little baskets of cotton by day, for work, hunting 
possums by night, and breaking the colts on Sun- 
day for religious diversion ! Chittlings, crack- 
ling-bread, hoe-cake, 'simmon beer and bacon ! 
These were his till there was one endless cackle 
in his laugh, one continual ring of grease around 
the hole in his face, one everlasting brewery in 
his heart. He ate so much, so often and so sys- 
tematically, that his cocoanut-protruding forehead 
was as polished as a black ivory ball, and the 
small spot of ebony abdomen that stuck out 
through the slit in his one garment — a hickory 
III 



/ 



Songs and Stories 

shirt that came down to his heels — looked not un- 
like the crown of a last year's derby greased with 
bear's grease. 

Freedom ! Not much of it did Dick want. In 
fact, I think, like the rest of his race, Dick missed 
the idea altogether, as a great many people now- 
adays have missed it. Dick never had studied 
the subject much, but somehow or other, way 
down in his little philosophical heart he had 
learned that slaves are sometimes free, while 
freemen are often slaves. 

Ah, Dick, there are more slaves to-day than on 
the day I first saw you, thirty-three years ago, 
as you rode the bay filly down the Jong lane 
while the twilight shadows pirouetted the cows 
you were driving home into colossal oxen. Yes, 
a lot more. 

It is true they don't go by that name, Dick, but 
oh, Dick, names are not even surface indicators 
in this world. There are so many slaves in the 
world to-day, Dick, that sometimes I hope we 
will find the north pole and start a new republic, 
not alone for the poor white and the poor black 
slaves now in the world, those who have to pinch 
and starve and toil and turn the grindstone of 
destiny as you and yours never had it to do, 
Dick, but also as a place where every voluntary 
slave to passion and avarice, sin and shame, 
may enter, and, by God's help, get another 
start in life. For 

112 



from Tennessee 

O, the tyranny of the master, Poverty, ^ 

And O, the whip of the master. Sin, 

And O, the hounds of Squalor and Misery, 
And O, the driver that drives them in ! 

They say that not even our greatest scholars 
of to-day could talk in Latin or Greek, were they 
placed back two thousand years ago in Rome or 
Athens. And they say it is because our thoughts 
do not come into our minds the same way — that 
they do not originate in the same manner, and 
hence cannot be expressed in similar construction 
to those of the dead languages. The germ-cell 
of the thought, so to speak, has been lost. And 
so it was with Dick. Freedom could not enter 
his mind because there was no brain-cell there 
for it, and none in his ancestors before him. That 
for which the Saxon would die was lacking in 
Dick. Happy Dick ! He was like a blackbird 
born in a cage ! 

But if Dick didn't have his freedom bump de- 
veloped there was one he did have, and that was 
— love. Dick loved everybody, but he loved ** ole 
Marster " best of all. Before he could walk well, 
he used to watch the tall, gray-haired Major dis- 
mount from his big, stocking-legged chestnut 
horse when he came in from riding over the farm, 
and as he would stalk by Dick and stop to play- 
fully crack his riding whip at him, instead of run- 
ning away in half-feigned terror and grinning at 
8 113 



Songs and Stories 

the stately joker as the other darkies did, Dick 
would crawl up to him like a frousy spaniel and 
with his long monkey fingers he would pick the 
cockle-burs and beggar lice from his master's leg- 
gings, and do it with the air of a dog when its 
owner deigns to rub its back with his foot. 

As he grew older Dick was taken by the Major 
**to the big house " to wait on him. Then in- 
deed was Dick's cup full. 

But one day Dick's cup was fuller. It ran over. 
At one bound he leaped into fame, and, what 
was better for Dick — his master's heart. And 
this is the way it happened. 

Major Robinson was a noted horseman. He 
owned, as was thought, the best in the land. 
His neighbor. Colonel Sellers, was also a noted 
horseman, and the Colonel was quite positive 
that his were the best in the land. The pride of 
each one's heart was a magnificent saddle stallion 
— and two grander horses, in truth, could not be 
found in a day's ride. Each could pace like a 
pickerel and go as many saddle gaits as a rocking 
chair on a steamboat deck. In looks — well, had 
Rosa Bonheur seen them, there would have been 
two more of her famous pictures in the Royal 
Gallery. The Major's horse was a splendid 
chestnut, as perfect as a Tennysonian poem, full 
of thoroughbred blood from nose to heel, and 
known as Traveler. The Colonel's was a 
beautiful bay, as rounded as one of Johnson's 
114 



from Tennessee 

periods, equally as well bred as Traveler, and 
known as Pilgrim. 

In those days questions of superiority in saddle 
horses were decided in the show ring. Only 
thoroughbreds raced. With the saddler it was 
looks and gaits. With the thoroughbred, speed. 

But Dick changed all that. Bright Dick ! 

These two famous horses naturally met, time 
and again, in the show ring ; and, being so nearly 
matched in breeding and gaits, sometimes Trav- 
eler would be awarded first prize, and then it 
would fall to Pilgrim. Year after year did this go 
on, throughout the fairs of middle Tennessee, un- 
til finally it became merely a question of who 
were the judges, as to which would win. At first 
the thing was humorous, but it soon became ex- 
citingly serious ; for as everybody in Tennessee, 
where a horse is involved, will take sides one way 
or the other, soon all the country were Travelers 
or Pilgrims. Small wonder they could not keep 
still 1 Tennessee has always been a battle ground 
for something. Before the white man's foot 
touched its soil it was the battle ground of the 
Indians, the hunting ground of the nations. 
Jackson made it for forty years the battle ground 
of national politics, and Fort Donelson, Shiloh, 
Murfreesboro, Chickamauga, Mission Ridge, 
Franklin and Nashville, these, alas, have made 
it the battle ground of death ! 

Tennesseeans love, indeed, a battle ground of 
115 



Songs and Stories 

some kind. Politics suits tliem best ; if this fails, 
they are delighted to battle it out among the 
churches ; and if both fail — look out for a horse 
race ! 

And so it was in this instance — both politics and 
religion were relegated to the background. Peo- 
ple no longer were Whigs and Democrats; they 
were Robinsonites and Sellersites, and instead of 
Baptists and Methodists they became Travelers 
and Pilgrims. Old fellows who had been at po- 
litical outs all their lives got gloriously fraternal 
on a platform that declared the Traveler horse 
to be the best horse under the sun, while old 
ladies who all their lives had slandered each 
other ''for the love of God," became as twin 
doves in the Pilgrim creed. From these it 
went to politics, until the county elections 
were fought out on that issue. Then, indeed, 
did things become serious — families became 
separated, lovers parted forever, husbands and 
wives were divorced on the subject of which 
was the better horse ! In the first election the 
Travelers captured the sheriff and county clerk — 
they had the military strength, but the Pilgrims 
held the coffers, for they elected the trustee and 
the tax assessor. A revolution threatened to 
disrupt the social fabric of the county and bloody 
war was imminent when Dick — the little wizard 
philosopher — settled the entire thing to his own 
everlasting honor and the dignity of the state. 
ii6 



from Tennessee 

How he came to think of it, I do not l<now. But 
one day that fall when things were at a crisis, when 
Traveler had beaten Pilgrim in the show ring for 
the fortieth time to the Pilgrim horse's thirty- 
ninth as against Traveler, when young men were 
fighting duels on the subject and old men were 
calling each other names, Dick sat out in front of 
Traveler's stall combing his own head with a 
curry-comb, as was customary with his race. 
Now, I do not know for certain, but I have always 
believed it was the curry-comb that put the idea 
in Dick's head, because I have often noticed that 
when people want very earnestly to think of 
something, they always scratch their heads. It 
follows as a necessary conclusion that if there is 
any virtue in the scratching at all, it would also 
follow that the harder the heads were scratched 
the brighter would be the thought result. Now 
Dick was combing away with all his might, for 
the kinks stuck out defiantly over his head, and 
all will admit that the idea evolved was simply 
brilliant. Hence the theorem, as the geometries 
say. 

''Marster, does yo' kno' Traveler kin pace 
mighty fast?" asked Dick as Major Robinson 
came out to see to the feeding of his horse. 

The Major smiled. ''Of course I do, Dick. 
Why?" 

*' But does yo' kno' he kin pace mighty briefly 
— mighty briefly?" repeated Dick, earnestly. 
117 



Songs and Stories 

*' You know I do," said the Major ; '* but how 
did you find it out ? Have you been pacing this 
horse to water ?" asked his master, a trifle 
sternly. 

**No, sah !" said Dick, in a tone of deeply 
grieved innocence. And then he laughed. 

*'But Marster, ef yo'd axed me ef I'd bin 
pacin' 'im frum water, I'd hafter tell yo' de truth. 
Fur tuther day I rid 'im down to de crick, an' 
when er thunderstorm cum up I had to run home 
er git wet. I tried to make 'im run, but he 
wouldn't, he jes' paced lak er flyin' Kildee — an' 
he beat de shower by a good length. Wan't dat 
pacin' frum water ?" and Dick grinned again. 

The Major had to laugh, too. 

** Marster," said Dick solemnly, '* 'peers to me 
dis way ob showin' bosses in de ring ain't no 
way to tell which am de bes'. Enny fat boss 
kin git er prize, but it takes grit to win er race, 
an' de boss dat ought to hab de prize am de boss 
dat kin go — dat's got de win' an' de lim' an' de 
bottom an' de head to stay dar. Dat's de boss 
wuff sumpin', ain't it ?" 

The Major smiled. "Yes, Dick, but why ?" 

Dick jumped up with intense earnestness in 
every feature. " Marster, Marster," he shouted, 
"jes' challenge de Pilgrim folks fur er pacin' 
race ! Make it fo' miles — dat'll settle it, an' " — 
lowering his voice to a confidential whisper — 
" yo' kno' Trabler's got de blood to stay 1" 
ii8 



from Tennessee 

The Major caught at the idea in a moment. 
Up to that time pacing races were practically un- 
heard of in the state. The idea was novel, and, 
certainly, as Dick said, would ** settle it." With- 
out a word he turned on his heels, went to 
his library, and promptly challenged the 
owner of Pilgrim to a four-mile pacing race 
for a purse of five thousand dollars. The chal- 
lenge was as promptly accepted by Colonel Sel- 
lers ; and Dick— poor little Dick — I claim for him 
here the honor of being the originator of pacing 
races in Tennessee ! 

It is needless to say the county was out to see 
that race. The boy who rode Pilgrim was nearly 
grown and quite strong, while Dick was but ten 
years old and a midget at that. When they came 
out on the track for the word Traveler was so 
keen to go and so powerful withal, that, by merely 
fighting half restlessly the bit, he jerked Dick 
about the saddle as a cork on a billow. 

** Marster," said Dick, as he rode up to where 
Major Robinson stood, ** I ain't 'feered of but one 
thing. Won't you do me er favor .?" 

*' What is it, Dick ?" asked the Major, as he 
caught the strong horse by the bit to see what 
the boy wanted. 

*M'm 'feered 1 can't hoi' him down," said 
Dick, "I'm so light. Won't you let 'em tie me 
in de saddle ?" 

The Major shook his head. ** No, no, Dick," 
119 



Songs and Stories 

he said. ** That would be cruel and treating you 
unfairly. The horse might run away, or fall, and 
I had rather lose the race than see you hurt. Do 
the best you can as it is." 

** An' I'druther die than lose derace, Marster,'* 
said Dick, determinedly. **Tie me in, an' ef 
ennything happens I won't blame you." 

The Major reluctantly yielded to the boy's en- 
treaties. A strong girth was passed over Dick's 
thighs as he sat in the saddle and tightly buckled 
around the horse ; the word was soon given and 
they were away. 

The horses paced like a team, both riders hold- 
ing them down for fear they would break. At 
the first mile they had become thoroughly warmed 
to the work and were steady enough to be given 
their heads more freely. At the second mile 
Dick led by a length, and at the third he had 
gotten still swifter and, owing to a break of FMI- 
grim, he was ten good lengths ahead, and his 
horse moving like machinery. But here the un- 
expected happened. Dick was too light for the 
powerful animal. Scarcely had he passed the 
third mile going at a terrific speed, when Trav- 
eler, taking the bit in his teeth, and having in- 
sufficient weight at the reins, pulled Dick, saddle 
and all, slightly forward, and then, to the horror 
of all, the saddle turned, and the boy and the 
saddle were seen dangling under the powerful 
horse's belly, while his flying feet appeared likely 

I20 



from Tennessee 

at any moment to end Dick's life and race at the 
same time. And to a larger rider tied as Dick 
was, such would have been the result. But not 
so with wiry little Dick ; his presence of mind 
did not forsake him. With both hands he grasped 
the surcingle band which ran around the horse's 
neck, dug his sharp heels into Traveler's flanks, 
and stuck there closer than a flying squirrel under 
an oak limb ! 

And the crowd, when they saw the act and the 
fact that the gallant horse never broke his gait, 
cheered itself hoarse. But in an instant it stopped — 
Traveler, riderless, had slackened his speed — 
Pilgrim came up and passed him ; while Traveler, 
bewildered, mechanically followed several lengths 
behind. It was all up for the Major ! 

But not so. Dick quietly waited in his perilous 
position till he turned into the stretch, and then 
— the crowd went wild again — for Dick, reckless 
Dick, turned loose his whip hand, gathered a 
firmer grip with his left, swung out his keen raw- 
hide and made Traveler think a hundred hornets 
had settled on him. It was a horse race from 
there to the wire, but Traveler had the speed and 
went under a half length ahead. 

No wonder a hundred men seized his bridle and 
cut Dick loose from his perilous position. No won- 
der the Major himself picked him up for joy, and, 
while he declared ten thousand dollars could not 
buy him, henceforth he was free ! 

121 



Songs and Stories 
II. 

Such was Dick as I knew him, thirty-three 
years ago. Given his freedom, he refused to 
leave his master and Traveler, but hung around 
the place, caring for the horses and cows, and 
enjoying all the affections and privileges of a 
shepherd dog. Every morning he would mount 
the bay filly and drive the cows to the blue grass 
pasture. Every evening he would drive them 
home. I can see him now, as he would ride down 
the long lane in the twilight. How I used to envy 
him ! — his jolly good nature, his graceful seat on 
the restive filly, the beautiful way he had of 
popping his long whip, and, best of all, the won- 
derful music in his wild halloo, sounding like a 
bugle call : 

'' Time's up, time's up, 
Childun an'-ah, 
Childun an'-ah, 
Les' go h-o-m-e 1" 

I don't think anyone living could sing that as 
Dick did. I did not know then where he got it, 
but the war soon taught me. It was *' Lights 
Out," and I wish I could put down the music too, 
so my readers could tell exactly how Dick would 
roll it out. But to make it complete, I would also 
have to put down the twilight, the song of the 
wind in the trees, the chirp of the redbird as he 



f. 



from Tennessee 

went to roost, and the glow of the sunset in the 
western sky. 

Home is the most perfect word in our language. 
It fits the mouth better, fills the lungs fuller, and 
rolls out purer and sweeter and better than any 
word in the English language. And how Dick 
could make it roll ! It would start from his mouth 
and rise and fall and swell above the treetops, 
and float over the low hills and then come back 
in an echo of subdued sweetness when it struck 
the higher hills beyond. As Dick sang it there 
was a whole orchestra in that one word — and 
more ; it was an organ, a sermon and a prayer. 
And he had caught the tune from a bugler — for 
Tennessee was full of Bragg's and Rosecrans' 
soldiers at this time ; but the words — Dick, I sup- 
pose, had made them himself. A queer combina- 
tion ! Apo lo's harp twanged with Mars' bow- 
strings — but it was music. 

Suddenly Dick pulled up the filly with a jerk. 
He listened and heard firing over toward Mur- 
freesboro. Dick knew what it meant. It was 
Tuesday evening, December 30, the evening be- 
fore the battle of Stone River. Dick popped his 
whip vigorously. Then he gravely shook his 
head. 

*' Sumbody gwinter git hurt ober dar ef dey 
don't behave deysefs. Dem's our men doin' dat 
shootin'. Dat's ole Bragg's bark. Look out, 
Rosey 1" 

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Songs and Stories 

He rode on a piece in silence. The firing grew 
sharper. 

** Whut dese Yankees wanter cum down heah 
an' take our niggers 'way frum us fur ennyway ? 
Whut we done to dem ? All we ax 'em ter do is 
ter let us erlone," and he galloped out to head off 
a heifer. 

Where Dick got the sentiments he expressed I 
cannot say ; but I do know that Dick was no ex- 
ception to his race. Darkey like, he was for his 
home and his white people first, though the free- 
dom of all his race lay on the other side. And 
Dick, like every other negro, knew it, too, though 
they worked on and said nothing. 

Some day there is going to be a great monu- 
ment put up in the South by southern people. 
And on its top is going to be a negro — not the 
mythical slave with chains on him and terror in 
his face, which fool artists, who never saw a ne- 
gro slave, and fool poets, who never heard one 
laugh, are wont to depict — but the jolly, con- 
tented, rollicking rascal that we knew and loved ; 
the member of our household and sharer of our 
joys and sorrows. On its top, I say, there is 
going to be that kind of a negro, as he was, and 
he is going to be represented in the act of picking 
cotton, with a laugh, while he refuses with scorn 
a gun with which to fight his master for his own 
freedom. When that is done, it will be the crown- 
ing monument of the age. 
124 



from Tennessee 

But in Dick's case it was still more remarkable, 
for Ma]or Robinson was what was called in Ten- 
nessee at that time ''a Union man." He was 
one of that very numerous class in Tennessee 
who voted as he said Andrew Jackson would 
vote — against secession. Even after the Gulf 
states seceded, these voted against secession and 
carried the state by a large majority, in a test of 
that question. Afterward, when Federal troops 
invaded the state, the tide turned, and Tennessee 
seceded. But Major Robinson, while he refused 
to secede, also refused to fight his own people. 
Avowedly for the Union, he took no part in the 
war. 

Dick rode on home rather seriously I thought, 
for I again heard his bugle call : 

*' Time's up, time's up, 
Childun an'-ah, 
Childun an'-ah, 
Les' go h-o-m-e!" 

But if Dick thought the evening skirmish was 
going to hurt somebody if they didn't behave, he 
had no doubt at all the next morning. For just 
at daylight, as he expressed it, *'hell sut'n'ly 
broke loose at Muffersburrer " — Rosecrans with 
forty-three thousand men had advanced from 
Nashville to strike Bragg on Stone River, and 
utterly crush him. But Bragg had a similar in- 
tention and struck first, at daylight, on the last 
125 



Songs and Stories 

day of December, 1862. And Dick had it right; 
genius is genius, and Dick and a great Union 
general both used the same expression in speak- 
ing of that battle. 

All day long Dick heard the boom, boom, 
boom of guns. For all day long Cleburne and 
Hardee, Polk and Cheatham, Withers and Mc- 
Cown executed one continual charging left wheel 
and rolled Rosecrans' right wing back, back, back, 
for four long miles, until the Federal lines were 
doubled up on each other at right angles, like a 
big bird with a broken wing. As wounded men 
were brought to the rear, and filled up the farm 
houses and yards, Dick heard them say that 
Bragg had crushed Rosecrans, that the Federal 
army was cut to pieces, that Shiloh was 
avenged. 

But the next day Dick heard no more guns, and 
he learned that Rosecrans had gotten between 
the river and the railroad embankment, and was 
going to fight there for life, madder than a gored 
bull. All that day Dick waited to see what was 
going to happen. 

The next day it happened. For Bragg tried to 
double up the other wing. Then there was an- 
other day of boom, boom, boom, until the wounded 
were so many and the dead so thick that Dick 
actually got used to dead men and declared that 
he would never again be afraid to go through a 
graveyard — *' fur whut is a grabeyard whar dey 
126 



from Tennessee 

am under groun' an' you can't see 'em," he said, 
** to a grabeyard on top de yearth whar you can't 
walk for steppin' on 'em." 

But the wing wouldn't double up. And on the 
third day Bragg quit and marched away. Dick 
afterward learned that Rosecrans was about to 
march back to Nashville himself if Bragg hadn't 
been in such a hurry, and that moved the wise 
little Dick, in great disgust, to exclaim : " Bragg 
am a good dog, but Holdfas' am better 1" 

Bright Dick ; that was what Rosecrans himself 
said. 

About a week after the battle Dick went out 
one evening to feed Traveler for the night. To 
his surprise an officer in a blue uniform was stand- 
ing in the stable door, and going into exaggerated 
praise of the beautiful animal, which a soldier 
held by the bit for his inspection. 

**Put 'im back, gem'men," shouted Dick, as 
he rushed up excitedly, **put 'im back ! Dat's 
Trabler ; ole Marster don' 'low nobody ter handle 
'im but me !" 

The officer laughed. '^He looks like a pretty 
good traveler," he said, "and that's what I want 
with him." 

" But you can't git dat hoss, sah, " expostulated 
Dick. ** He ain't fur sale." 

" We don't want to buy him," said the soldier 
who was holding the bit. " In war time we take 
what we want." 

127 



Songs and Stories 

Dick waited to hear no more. He vanished. 

In a few minutes he came back with Major 
Robinson. 

The Major was astounded. He expostulated ; 
the soldiers were determined. He explained his 
position, offered them other horses, and demanded 
protection. It was of no avail. Then the Major 
grew commanding and ordered them back. The 
officer lost his temper and foolishly drew his re- 
volver. Foolishly, I say, for to a man of Major 
Robinson's ideas of life and death and honor he 
simply invited a tragedy — and it came. The 
Major was an old duelist, dead game and a deader 
shot, and before Dick recovered his senses he 
heard five or six shots follow each other, some in 
and some out of the stable door. 

When the smoke died away, an oificer lay 
dead, a soldier dying, and Dick was holding 
Traveler's bit with one hand, the stirrup with the 
other, and begging his master to fly. 

'' Go ! Marster, go !" he begged. *' Don't yo' 
heah de udder soldiers cumin' ? Dey will kill 
yo' ef dey ketch yo' heah ; but dey'll nurver 
ketch yo' on dis boss." 

The Major hesitated : "You saw them, Dick," 
he said, half sorrowfully. **They were stealing 
my horse, and drew to kill me. No, I'll not run 
for defending my property and my life." 

A sound of galloping hoofs came up the pike. 
A squad of Federal cavalry dashed in the front 
128 



from Tennessee 

gate. Dick thrust his master's foot in the stirrup 
and half pushed him into the saddle. The Major 
was convinced he had better flee, at least until 
he could come back and be sure of an impartial 
trial, and as Dick turned loose the bit he gave 
the spirited animal a blow which made him bound 
away through a side gate ; ** Take care of your 
mistress, Dick," was all the Major could call 
back before he was gone. 

Dick picked up the pistol his master had thrown 
down. A squad of soldiers rushed around the house 
to the stable. They took in the scene at a glance. 

" Who did this ?" shouted one to Dick. 

Dick listened. He could still hear Traveler's 
feet up the pike. His master might yet be headed 
off and captured if he answered. 

'* Who did this ?'* thundered the soldier again, 
while several of them cocked their pieces. 

Dick listened again. He could still hear the 
horse's feet. An idea flashed into his mind. It 
meant death to him, he knew, but what cared 
Dick if it saved ** ole Marster "? 

He turned his head slowly and looked the sol- 
diers in the eye. 

And the eyes that looked so calmly into "the 
muzzles of their guns were no longer those of a 
little negro slave — they were twin stars that lit 
the lamps of Heaven, while the Recording Angel 
wrote something grand opposite Dick's poor little 
slave name. 

9 129 



Songs and Stories 

'* Heah's whut dun it," he said, as he held out 
the pistol, still warm — **dey wuz stealin' Mars- 
ter's hoss, an' I " — 

A volley followed instantly. 

** I guess we've got the imp," said a soldier 
grimly as he watched the motionless figure now 
lying in the stall door between the two blue uni- 
forms. 

But suddenly the pinched figure rose on its el- 
bows and listened. The sound of flying hoofs 
could no longer be heard ; a smile of exquisite 
satisfaction stole over the grimy face, and de- 
fiantly there came back : 

** Yes, you got me. But you'll nurver git ole 
Marster on dat hoss !" 

And then, as consciousness forsook him and 
the dark closed 'round, he must have thought it 
was twilight and that he was on the bay filly 
driving the cows home, for the soldiers heard, 
low and soft as their own bugle notes — 

** Time's up, time's up, 
Childun an'-ah, 
Childun an'-ah, 
Les' go h-o-m-e !" 

And Dick's light was out. 



130 



from Tennessee 



NORA. 

NORA came out of the big farm gate and 
strolled over where the glad wild roses 
grew by the fence and hung, cornelian wreathed, 
on walls of green. And her own face rivaled the 
roses and her eyes were brighter than the thrush's 
that sat, half-startled, in her rose leaf home in 
the hedge. And her hair hung down in golden 
plaits, like the last two rays of sunset on the 
twilighted west. 

Nora was ever beautiful ; but this evening she 
was divine — because she had tasted the divinity 
of love. 

And Nora knew she was in love. She knew it 
because she was truthful and true and she told 
the truth to all people ; but to herself she was 
truer yet, and dared not even to deceive herself 
in so small a thing as a false wish. 

** For false wishes," she said, ** are false chil- 
dren, and they grow up to scoff and scorn the 
parent heart that idly made them." 

And Nora knew she was in love, because life 
now was so different from what it was before. 
131 



Songs and Stories 

Besides, were not all other things in love ? The 
roses — did they not bloom each morning with the 
love-light in their eyes ? Had not the thrushes 
mated and gone to housekeeping ? Life — it was 
so different now. The wind, it never blew, but 
frolicked ; the rain, 'twas but the clouds sprinkling 
the grass and the flowers. Her household duties 
were not tasks, but pleasures, and the night never 
came now — only the stars to wink at her in silent 
happiness and bless her in their sweet, breathing 
light ! 

Nora knew she was in love. 

*'How grand a thing it is to be in love," she 
caught herself saying to her heart, and blushed 
at the thought of it. And then, to hide her 
sweet embarrassment, she plucked two yearn- 
ing roses and fancifully she held one up to each 
cheek to wed their crimson cousins there. '* How 
grand it is ! How it lifts one up above the com- 
mon things, to the sweet region of that other 
world where each bright star is hope, and every 
crescent moon hangs over the harvest field of 
love ! O, love, love, to change me in so short 
a while ! The school girl to the maiden — the 
maiden to — to — to his angel '* — she laughed and 
stammered — *' for has he not himself a thousand 
times told me ? O," she said aloud, with a little 
surprised gesture, as if she had just thought of 
something wonderful, something no one had ever 
thought of before, " O, if being in love makes 
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from Tennessee 

one so different, so well satisfied with life and 
glad to be alive, why did not God make us in love 
first and keep us ever so ?" 

*' He did me/' said a voice behind her, and the 
roses on the hedge were pale compared with those 
that rushed to Nora's cheeks. 

''How could you, Tom ?" the girl laughed as 
she pelted him with roses. ** How silly of me to 
talk out loud !" she added. 

" How could I love you ?" he asked seriously — 
not noticing that she was trying to turn his ques- 
tion into fun. ** Don't ask me, Nora — God must 
answer that. I thought you asked why God did 
not make us in love at first and keep us ever so, 
and I told you that he did — at least — me," and 
Tom looked straight into her honest eyes. 

But Nora's eyes were no longer laughing. 
They were very serious and solemn. Her face, 
too, had lost its playful smile as quickly as it had 
its scarlet hue, and now it was white — whiter than 
any of the white roses. There was something 
in Tom's voice and look that Nora had never seen 
before — a manliness, a strength, an independence. 
He was passive and quiet, but Nora saw he was 
stronger now than he was the day he tossed the 
hay the highest on the rick, for fun and a wager, 
more resolved and powerful than when he seized 
and held the rearing, stubborn, untamed colt. 

*' O, Tom !" she said, as she saw for the first 
time that Tom, too, loved her. ** I — " 
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Songs and Stories 

** Listen, Nora," said Tom quietly. " Have I 
not always loved you ? Way back when we 
toddled together — neighbor farmers' children — 
school days — every day — all day — all the time — 
now ? If love is happiness, then am I a god. If 
it is wealth, then I am rich indeed. For it I am 
thankful — thankful that I have known you — 
thankful that I loved you— love you now and 
always will. Although I know," he said, without 
moving his eyes from her face, *'that you will 
soon wed another — " 

The red roses came again. **0, Tom, 
please don't — " half deprecatingly, half sorrow- 
fully. 

** No, Nora, let me talk now. Hereafter my 
lips are sealed. Go the way of your heart — 
marry him. But I ? I will still love you. I did not 
create my love. I did not make it, neither can I 
destroy it. I will be better for it, truer, a nobler 
man, I hope. I am happy and yet miserable. 
Happy when I think of you and miserable when 
I think you are another's. But even in that 
thought I am happy because of my love for you. 
I can find no comfort save in one thought, and that 
came to me the other night as I sat thinking of 
you — your wedding day next week," he said. 
'^ And I made this myself because I was so 
wretched and I wanted something to live by after 
you are married. I must ever love you, ever 
worship you, for 

134 



from Tennessee 

Love is a star, 
To be worshiped afar, 
And, like it, should be above us." 

** O, Tom," said Nora, sadly, for her heart 
ached for him, ** man's love is different from ours. 
You will think differently — " but she was too 
honest to say more — even too honest to try to 
detain him as she saw him walk sadly away. 

'* Our love should be above us," Nora said to 
herself as she sorrowfully watched him go down 
the road. ** Ah, Tom is right — mine is above me ; 
so brilliant and grand and bright and — and — I 
love him so ! But Tom — poor Tom," she said as 
she went in at the gate, for the twilight had 
come, and her father had lighted his pipe and 
the far-off aroma of tobacco smoke filled the cool 
evening air. 

II. 

*'I cannot be with you to-night, Nora," was 
the way the note read which her father brought 
her from town. ** I am more than busy on an 
important case to be tried to-morrow. I have 
studied up on it for twelve months — it will be all 
over in a few days, and then for my Nora and the 
other roses at the old farm. I am busy now — so 
busy. But in the midst of all my work, do you 
know how often I think of you and that I even 
take time to wonder why I love you so ? It is 
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Songs and Stories 

not your purity, sweetness, goodness, truthful- 
ness alone — but something that tells me you are 
so above me, like a star which no man has ever 
seen before." 

** It will be all over in a few days,*' said the 
letter. Alas, how true. For the bright mind 
went out that night — a string in the fine organ- 
ism of his high-strung soul snapped under the 
long work and tension, and the wedding was post- 
poned forever. 

Nora did not know how many years had gone 
by, but one June day she came out of the big farm 
gate and strolled over, as she had years before, 
where the same roses grew on the old stone fence 
and hung just as beautifully around the walls. 
And the same love was in her eyes, but it was a 
sweet, sad love. The roses were red as ever, but 
her cheeks rivaled them no longer. She pulled 
the roses as of yore, and they thought the night 
dew had fallen on them when she raised them to 
her cheeks. She looked up to heaven and the 
tears stood in her eyes. ** Years ago," she said, 
** I stood here. I was happy — so happy. To-day, 
thank God, I am happier, far happier. Then, my 
love was of earth. Now, it is of heaven. Then, 
he was a mortal. Now, he is a god." 

She looked across the meadow to Tom's home, 
where his children were playing in the yard, 
while the happy father was bustling around. A 
136 



from Tennessee 

faint beam of pleasure, that Tom was happy, 
came over her face, and she said : 

'* Ah, Tom, now you know that man's love is 
not like woman's : 

Love is a star. 
To be worshiped afar. 
And, like it, should be above us. 

**Yes, above us — above us, "she whispered 
through her tears, as she looked up once more 
to the stars which were just beginning to come 
out one by one, and then she went silently in at. 
the little gate. 

And again the aroma of tobacco smoke floated 
out in the still evening air. 



137 



Songs and Stories 



THE SPELLING MATCH AT BIG SANDY. 

OLD WASH came in the other night with his 
head tied up, three inches of sticking 
plaster under his left eye, and a cheese-cloth 
containing a freshly-cut chici^en gizzard bound 
under the other one. 

** Boss, does yo' happen ter hab er bottle uv 
arniker handy ?" he said, as he felt of his head to 
see that his bandages were still on. 

*'What in the world is the matter with you, 
old man?" I asked. ** Any camp-meeting or 
revival going on over about Indian Springs ?" 

** Wusser'n dat !" — mournfully. 

** What ! You don't mean to say the election 
for deacon is still going on ?" 

** Boss," solemnly, ** hit's wusser'n 'lection 
camp-meetin' reviler, lynchin' er enything else 
We dun had er spellin' match ober our way "— 
and he jerked out his left leg energetically — *' an 
ef eber I gets my ban's on dat little merlatter up 
start ob er skule teecher, Ebernezer Johnsing 
he'll think de Angel Gabriel done blowed his 
trumpet in his lef year. 

138 



from Tennessee 

** You see," he said, as he wiped his mouth on 
the bacl< of his hand, after I had given him a 
glass of Lincoln County, made in 1878, to ease 
his misery, "dar hes bin er pow'ful wak'nin' on 
egucashunal questions sence dey 'lected me skule 
commisshuner ober dar. We 'lected Ebernezer 
Johnsing es teecher, an' at de fus' meetin' ob de 
boa'd, sez I : * Johnsing, how am de bes' way 
ter wak'n dis degenerit race ob vipers up on de 
impo'tance ob eguchashun ? I'm skule commis- 
shuner heah now, an' sumpin's gotter be dun — 
disyer race shan't grow up in ig'rance an' de- 
pravity 'roun' me.' 

* * ^ Dar am jes' two t'ings needed, ' sez Johnsing. 
'We need plenty uv good secon'-growth hick'ry 
an' now an' den er spellin' match,' an' den he 
'splains whut er spellin' match wuz. I kno'd I 
wuz er good speller, an' dey cudden't bust my 
influence es commisshuner on dat line, an' I jes' 
went right in fer it. I got er good egucashun 
right arter de wah, fer I went ter skule fer six 
mon's ter er lady frum Bosting, dat b 'longed to de 
' Sassiety fur Egucatin' de Nigger,' an' I took 
mine early an' deep. I wuz jes' spilin' ter show 
dem niggers how er skule commisshuner orter 
spell, ennyway, an' de naixt Sund'y Pawson 
Shadrack Meeshack Phillips read out at de end ob 
de sarvice : 

** * Dar will be er highly amusin' an' instructive 
entertainment at Big Sandy skule house naixt 
139 



Songs and Stories 

Friday night fur de risin' gen'rashun an' de organ 
fun'. All am invited to precipitate.' 

** Wal, I went ober an' tuck all de fambly. 
Dar wuz er big crowd, an' de gals an' boys wuz 
gwinter end up wid er dance an' er candy pullin'. 
It wuz pow'ful hot, but dey would b'ild er big 
fiah in de skule stove an' put on er big pot er 
sorghum fer candy stew. 

" 'Skuse me, Boss 1" — with an expression of 
intense pain — " but de misery in dis eye am 
'tickler 'xcruciatin' jes' now. Ernudder drap 
outen dat bottle, ef yer please. 

**Wal, I 'spected, ob co'se, ter be de one ter 
gib out de words, but dat Johnsing nigger tuck 
me off an' demanded ter be erlowed to gib out 
de words hissef, * by virtue ob de persishun he 
helt,' he sed. * It's not bekase I can't spell all de 
words in de book, Brudder Washington,' he say, 
*but sumtimes I gits er little confused an' can't 
git up de flow ob language necessary ter express 
'em, an' ef I happen ter miss er dozen er two 
words, sum nigger, not understandin' 'bout 
my lack uv expressive language, might say I 
cudden't spell an' spile my influence es erteacher 
in de community.' I seed de p'int, an' 'lowed 
him ter gib out de words. Dey 'lected me cap'n 
ob one side an' Brudder Moses Armstrong cap'n 
ob de yudder. We chused sides an' stood on er 
plank in de floor op'sit one ernudder. Now, de 
lumber wuz green when hit wuz put down fur 
140 



from Tennessee 

floorin' an^ hed shrunk, an' dar wuz big cracks 
wid ebry plank. 'Sides dat, er dozen good big 
shoats hed gone up under de skule house, w'ich 
wuz on de slant ob de hill, an' dey hed crawled 
es fur es dey could, an' squeezed deyselves 
erginst de groun' an' de flo' an' gone ter roost. 
Dem wuz all little t'ings, but I've noticed in dis 
life dat it am de little t'ings dat happen ebry day 
dat turns de tide at las'. Wal, Johnsing 'lowed 
he b'leebed in objec' teachin', an' wanted us ter 
fus' spell de t'ings layin' 'round handy. An' 
he picked up er bottle an' he sez to Moses Arm- 
strong : 

*** Spell dis.-* 

**M — n — k ink, s — t — a — n stan, inkstan',' 
sez Moses. 

** * Right,' sez Johnsing, an' he picks up a cheer 
an' sez ter ernudder, 'Spell dis,' an' de yudder 
spell his right erlong : 

'* * C — h — double e — r, cheer.' 

** * Right,' sez Johnsing. 

** An' den he looked at me an' pick up er little 
sharp stick dat he used ter p'int out sums on de 
boa'd wid, an' he say : 

** * Brudder Washin'ton, spell dis.' 

** * P — i — n — t pint, e — r er, pinter,' sez I. 

*'* Dat's wrong,' he say. * Next, spell hit.' 
An' er little nigger on de yudder side, not ten 
yeahs ole, an' in his shut-tail, jumps up quickly 
an' say : 

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Songs and Stories 



(( I 



P — — i — n — t point, e — r er, pointer.* 

** * Right/ sez Johnsing ; Brudder Washin'ton, 
yo' will please sit down, sah. You am trapped.' 

*'* Trapped, de debbil,' sez I, gettin* hot. 
*Yo' tell me I can't spell pinter— Hal P'inter ? 
Ain't I dun rub him off er hun'red times ? Ain't 
1 dun gone all ober de Gran' Circus wid Marse 
Ed Geers } Didn't we hab our pict'res tuck at 
Clebeland togedder — an' me er skule commis- 
shuner an' can't spell de hoss I raised ? Yo' try 
ter disgrace me heah wid dat little stick befo' 
dis community dat thou't I knowedsumpin' 'bout 
er hoss ? Yer blossom frum offen er yaller dog- 
fennel,' sez I, * I'm ready ter wipe de flo' wid yo',' 
an' I peeled erway at 'im wid my fis'. 

** Boss," said the old man, solemnly, ** I don't 
kno' how hit happened, but dey say dat sum ob 
degals, 'spectin' er fight, made er break ter git 
out an' knocked ober de pot ob b'ilin' candy, an' 
hit poured t'rough de flo' on de hogs sleepin' be- 
low. Nacherly dez riz es one hog, an' es dey 
wuz es fur under de house es dey cud go, w'en 
dey tried ter scrouge under furder ter git outen de 
way sumpin hed ter bus', an' dat wuz de plank 
we all wuz on. All I kno' is de flo' seemed ter 
heave up an' I hit de ceilin' 'long wid er dozen 
or mo' pettycoats an' striped stockin's. Some 
fool nigger hollered — 

** * Yarthquake ! yarthquake ! Dinnermite ! 
dinnermite !' an' when I hit de flo' ergin I made 
142 



from Tennessee 

er leap fer de winder, t'inkin' hit wuz up. But 
hit wuzn't, an' I went on t'rough, carryin' de 
sash on my neck, wid my haid sticken' outen er 
six-by-eight pane. I muster galloped two mile 
down de pike befo' I cum to and seed whut er 
collar I hed on. 

**But look yere, Boss" — pulling a bandage 
down under his eye — **doncher kno' no winder 
glass didn't git me dis black eye ? An' look 
yere, too " — feeling a bump as big as a goose egg 
on the side of his head— ** doncher kno' I didn't 
git dat gallopin' down de road ? Dat Johnsing 
fotch me two licks jes' erbout de time de flo' riz, 
an' de fus' time I ketch 'im on de pike by hissef 
I'm gwinter teach 'im how ter spell P'inter er re- 
sign my office," and the old man went out to kill 
a fresh chicken to poultice his head. 



143 



Songs and Stories 



HOW ROBERT J. BROKE THE RECORD. 

LAST week I took old Wash up to Terre Haute 
to see Robert J. go against the world's 
record. He was turned loose with Billy Fitz- 
gerald, Ed Geers' Tennessee cook, and I saw no 
more of the old man till he came in Saturday night 
in a semi-comatose condition and proceeded to tell 
us how Robert J. broke the record : 

** Marse Ed cum out on de track wid dat ornery- 
lookin' little pacer. Yer wouldn't gib fifty dollars 
er dat hoss, boss, ef you'd er seed 'im in de stall, 
he's dat no-'count-lookin' an' sprung-kneed an' 
cat-hammed. But on de track you'd gib fifty 
t'ousan' fer de shake ob hees tail an' t'ank Gord 
fer de prib'lege ob seein' 'im shake it. I've heurd 
ob de transfo'mashun ob de prophet, but he ain't 
in it wid Robert J. Marse Ed sot quiet lak an' 
oncansarned, but de white folks clap dair ban's 
an' holler w'en he jog by. Marse Ed nod hees 
haid, same ester say, 'Much 'bleeged ter yer 
all, but dis yer am my busy day,' an' he jog on 
'round. Torectly, de big white man dat sot in 
144 



from Tennessee 

de roun' box an' wave de red flag at de bosses 
an' talk sassy to de drivers ef dey don't score 
down right, be got up an' say, * Stop er moment, 
Mistah Geers,' an' Marse Ed be stop. Den de 
boss man turn 'roun' to de big stan' whar all de 
wbite folks sot, an' be say : * Ladies an' gen'el- 
mans, Robert J., de great pacer frum Tennessee, 
driven by de onliest Edward Geers, will now go 
ergin de wurl' record ob two, two an' er half. I 
beg yer ter keep quiet twell de record am 
busted." 

** Come ! come ! You know he didn't say 
Tennessee horse. Robert J. was bred in Penn- 
sylvania," I interrupted. 

**Boss, I'm tellin' yer whut I heurd myse'f. 
Ef yo' wants ter make er pome outen et, in cou'se 
yo' kin 'range de fac's ter suit youse'f. I wuz 
dar an' heurd 'im say et." 

*'Well, goon." 

**De people all clap dair ban's, an' hoorayed 
ergin, an' Marse Ed jogged on back up de stretch, 
lookin' lak he jes' gwine ter mill fer er bushel er 
meal an' 'lowed ter git back 'long tow'ds sun- 
down. But fus' t'ing I knowed I heurd er kinder 
patter-patter, patter-patter, patter-patter, an' den 
er kinder bipperty-bip, bipperty-bip, bipperty-bip, 
an' I look up an' heah cum dat little ole pacer, 
jes' er flyin', wid er runnin' boss in er sulky by 
he side, an' er doin' all he c'ud ter keep up. I 
grab er white man by me an' say : 
^° 145 



Songs and Stories 

** * Mistah, don't dat man cum wid hees grist in er 
hurry ? ' But de man punch ernudder man standin* 
by Mm, an' say : 

** * Ven did dis coon coom outen de 'sylum ?' 
*' But I wuz lookin' at dat Robert J. an' de 
w-a-y he did fly ! Down de track he went, 
turnin' de corner lak er skeered cat goin' 'roun' 
de kitchen chimbly wid de yard dog arter 'im. 
But Marse Ed nebber move er muscle ner bat er 
eye. He jes' sot dar silen' es death in er country 
chu'ch yard, an' still es de bronze angel on er 
deacon's tomb. He look lak de speerit ob '76 on 
wheels an' 'termined es er ole maid when she 
make up her min' ter marry de Mefodis' preacher 
wid ten mudderless chilluns. An' fo' goodness, 
Boss, I cudden' see Robert J. 'tall ! All I seed 
wuz 'is shadder on de whitewashed fence be- 
yond, an' dat scudded erlong lak er March cloud 
flyin' ercrost de sun's face. At de fus' quarter 
I heurd sumpin' sorter shettin' wid er snap, 
bang, an' I looked up in some pigeon-holes in 
de timer's stan', an' dar wuz hung out 30^, 
an' eb'rybody wuz hollerin' an' — an' Robert J. 
still er flyin' ! 

** 'Great scotts ! how he climbs dat hill,' sed 
er man by me. De onliest hill I seed wuz er hill 
erbout fo' mile erway, on de yudder side de 
Warbash ribber, an' I look ober dar 'spectin' ter 
see Robert J. gwine up dar, sulky an' all, fer I 
could er b'lieved ennything 'bout 'im now arter 
146 



from Tennessee 

seein' 'im go dat fus' quartah, but I didn't see no 
Robert J. ober dar, an' I say ter de man : 

" * Mistah, what hill dat you talkin' 'bout ?' an' 
he stare at me mad-lak, an' say : 

*' ' Ef yer don't stop trompin' on my toes an* 
quit breathin' yo* bref in my face, I'll make er 
dead nigger outen yer !' 

**Iseed dat man wuzn't social 'tall, an' I let 
'im erlone. But I heurd ernudder snap bang in 
de pigeon-holes, an' I look ergin an' dar wuz 
hung out i:oo^, an' de folks all stan'in' on dair 
haids an' hollerin' — an' Robert J. still erflyin' ! 

**Roun' de third quartah he cum, wid de run- 
ner an' 'im nose an' nose, lak er team, an' yer 
couldn' tell which wuz which 'cept de runner's 
haid kep' bobbin' up an' down an' 'is driver er 
whippin' an' er slashin' while Robert J.'s nose 
nebber moved up ner down er inch, an' Marse 
Ed settin' dar lak er statoo uv er Greek god on 
er charyut. Snap ! bang 1 1:30^ dey hung out, 
an' den sech er shout esdey sent up — an' Robert 
J. still erflyin' ! 

'* Dey didn' wanter stop hollerin', an de boss 
man got up an' beg 'em an' beg 'em an' wave 
hees ban's, an' shouted fer quiet, an' de folks in 
de fus' row dey all stan' up an' look back at dem 
behin' an' say sh-h-h ! sh-h-h-h ! sh-h-h-h-h ! an' 
de gran' stan' stop so still yo' could'er heurd er 
pin drap in de middle ob de naixt century — an' 
Robert J. still erflyin' ! 

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Songs and Stories 

'* He turn de cohner. De angels played on er 
harp ob er thousan' strings in my years, an' I 
thought I wuz in ernudder wurl' ! I fohgotwhar 
I wuz. 'Reared lak 'twuz me in de sulky, an' I 
grab er pair er spike coat-tails b'longin' ter er 
dude in front ob me, fer reins, an' wid bofe eyes 
on dat flyin' hoss I commenced ter cluck myse'f. 
De win' roared in my years es I flew erlong ; de 
fence 'roun' de track look lak er whitewashed 
string hung in de air, an' de track itse'f 'peared to 
be er toboggan slide down de highes' peak ob de 
Alps, an' de sulky wuz gwine down et, pulled by 
flyin' eagles an' mounting deers ! 'Twas sweet- 
er'n de angels in dair glory ! Bipperty-bip ! bip- 
perty-bip ! bipperty-bip ! cum dat yer runner ! 
Click-klock ! click-klock ! click-klock cum dat 
sweet 'ittle pacer. Snap, bang ! 2:01^ wentde 
timer's box, an' I turn two summersets, shouted 
* glory halleluyer !' busted inter ten thousan' 
pieces, an' went home ter glory ! 

** When I cum to I wuz huggin' er trottin'-bred 
nigger frum Indiana, an' singin' : 

Hark frum de tomb, yer trottin' coon — 

We've sot yer er record yer won't bust soon !" 



148 



from Tennessee 



HOW OLD WASH SOLD THE FILLY. 

OLD WASH paced into my study the other 
day the most woe-begone darkey in Ten- 
nessee. There was a halt in his walk, a creak 
in his step and a crick in his neck. 

*' Boss," he said, as I motioned him to sit down 
on the black mohair stool in the corner till I fin- 
ished writing, '*de ole man bin mighty mizrified 
fur er week er mo'. Hes yo' got enything 
layin' 'roun' loose dat would he'p 'im ter git er 
move on hissef ? Enny kind er — " 

The rest of the sentence was cut off by yelps 
and snarls, mingled with many imprecations, and 
rapid rising from the stool on the part of him who 
a few minutes before could scarcely walk. I had 
forgotten to tell the old man the stool was already 
occupied by my ill-natured black-and-tan terrier, 
who thought she had' a pre-empted right to that 
particular piece of furniture. 

**rm afraid that's all I've got lying around 
loose to-day, Wash," I said, as the old man stood 
rubbing the seat of his trousers and eyeing with 
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Songs and Stories 

withering contempt the spluttering and sneezing 
dog who was appealing to me for sympathy. 
'* What can I do for you ?" I asked, as I laid 
aside my work -at the chance of hearing some of 
his drollery. 

For answer the old man slowly ran his hand 
into the tail pocket of his threadbare Prince Al- 
bert and drew forth a crumpled paper. 

**Does yo' recognize dis ?" he said, as he 
drew out a paper. 

** Oh, yes," I said ; "that's the horse paper of 
December, 1892.'* 

** Den jes' read at dis place," he said, pointing 
at a paragraph with the air of a lawyer who is 
about to entice a witness into a trap he had set 
for him. I read it aloud. It was the closing par- 
agraph of my editorial on the situation for 1892 : 

'* * On the whole, though the season of 1892 has 
not been as promising as it should have been, 
owing to several bad failures, there is now no 
doubt we have passed through the worst of the 
hard times and may confidently expect to see 
better times for next year. A good time to stay 
in a business is when others are going out.' 

'' Well, what about it ?" I asked. 

**0, nuffm'," said the old man, a little iron- 
ically, I thought. " Nuffin' fall, 'cept dat little 
verse ob poetry jes' ruined me, dat's all !" 

**Why, how's that?" I asked in astonish- 
ment. 

150 



from Tennessee 

**Wal, sah," said the old man, '*hits jes* dis 
way : Does yo' kno' my Red Pilot filly ? Ten 
pacin' crosses widout er single break ! Fust dam 
by—'' 

** Never mind/' I cried — for I hated to hear 
him start on an endless pedigree — **what about 
her ? I know all about her ; go on." 

The old man looked sorrowfully into the fire. 

** She'd er bin sumbuddy else's 'cept fur dat 
profercy. She'd er bin sumbuddy else's darlin' 
but fur de brilliant prophet dat knowed more den 
de Almighty 'bout whut de naixt yeah wuz 
gwinter bring forth ! But fur readin' dat an' 
bleevin' it," he said, ''I'd er sold dat filly wid 
her ten pacin' crosses fur three hundred dollars — 
thirty dollars er cross ! Grate heaben, whut er 
fool I wuz ! I hed dat offered fur her, but whut 
did I do when I read dat ? Sot back an' axed 
five hundred dollars fur her ! Sold my hog meat 
ter buy her cohn an' oats an' wait fur de millen- 
nium ob ateen-ninety-three ter cum dat de hoss- 
prophet sed wuz cumin' !" 

** And did it come ?" I asked. The old man 
looked at me almost pitifully. Instead of reply- 
ing he drew out another paper. This was dated 
December, 1893, and the paragraph he had 
singled out was also mine : 

** Taken as a whole this has been the worst year 
for the sale of harness horses that has been 
known for a long time. It seems the boom has 
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Songs and Stories 

collapsed, but it is also plain that every fictitious 
element has been eliminated and next year will 
see the business once more on a solid foundation. 
Don't sell your pacers now — you will be sorry." 

** An' I wuz sorry, sah ; sorry I didn't sell, too," 
he said. ** O, ef er certain hoss prophet I kno'," 
he said, looking at me innocently, ** hed libbedin 
de time ob Noah, dey wouldn't er hed no use fur 
Jeremiah, Izear an' de whale dat swallered Joner. 
Relyin' on dat blessed promis," he said, 'M 
most 'pintedly 'fused one hundred an' fifty dol- 
lars fur dat filly, sot back on my dignerty, an' 
waited fur de star ter rise in de east. An' did it 
cum ter pass ? No, sah, 'sted ob dat de filly 
went ter grass— an' when dat gib out she cum 
mighty nigh goin' ter de bone yard. But long 
t'wards de winter ob dat rocky yeah, er feller 
cum erlong an' sed he'd gib me fifty dollars fur 
her ruther den see her starve. So de naixt day 
I put de halter on 'er an' focht 'er in ter turn 'er 
ober ter de buyer. But when I got ter town I 
foun' my hoss paper in de postoffis' an' de wurds 
ob de prophet wuz in it clear es er crystal bell. 
Heah it am," he said, as he thrust another paper 
at me. I blushed slightly as I read : 

** * The season of 1894 has gone, and though it 
has been full of trials and tribulations, low prices, 
hard times, financial panics, and bursted banks, 
the recent sale of horses in Ohio, New York and 
other states confirms the now almost universal 
152 



from Tennessee 

belief that the year 1895 will find the horse busi- 
ness once more on hand and doing better than 
ever. This is positively affirmed by the fact that 
many mushroom breeders have sold out and quit. 
The supply is necessarily nearly exhausted, es- 
pecially for pacers, and he who can hold till 1895 
will reap a fortune." 

**Dat settled it wid me," said the old man. 
**I tuck de filly back home, stopped de chillun frum 
skule, sold de 'possum dog, lied erbout my taxes, 
shetoff de missionery fund fer de church, closed 
down on de preacher, an' spent de money in 
forty-cent oats an' fifty-cent cohn to stuff hit 
erway in dat filly fur de cummin' ob de angel ! 
But he passed my house by. Yo' kno' what dis 
yeah has bin," said he. ** Ef de yudder yeahs 
hes bin rocky, dis yeah hes been ashy. Ef de 
yudder yeahs hes been bottomless, dis one hes 
been volcanic — jes' seem to hev got down es low 
es it cud an' den throwed up whut it cudn't 
reach ! Dey say us in de boss bizness am suf- 
ferin' fur de sins ob our daddies ; ef dis am so, de 
origernal daddy ob de boss bizness must er slid 
outer Sodam an' Termorrow jes* befo' de yearth- 
quake ! Dey say we must suffer to de third an' 
de fourth generashun, but hit 'pears to me de biz- 
ness dun passed through forty crosses ob tribe- 
lashun already ! 

** By March she hed et meoutob ebrything but 
er little Jersey bull an' er hatrack, an' I cudn't 
153 



Songs and Stories 

git ten dollers fur dat filly wid her ten pacin' 
crosses ! By June I hed offered her ter er farmer 
ef he'd keep us in buttermilk twell de black- 
berries cum. * No, siree/ he say, 'I'm feedin' 
my buttermilk to hogs, an' I kno' I kin sell dem !' 
When my darter got married, I tried to gib de 
filly to 'er fur er bridle present ; but she 'lowed ef 
she hed to hev ennything in de pacin' line fur 
er bridle gift she'd take er rockin' cheer an' er 
cradle ; an' at last when I dun clean gib up, heah 
cum de cunstable to levy on sumpin' fur de oats 
I bought an' cudn't pay fur at de grocers, an' I 
say to myself, * Thang goodness, she'll go now, 
sho' 1' but she didn't," said the old man as he 
wiped a tear ; ** he found out I had de little Jersey 
bull dat weighed two hundred poun's, wurf two 
cents er poun', left, an' by de gable ob de temple 
ef he didn't take dat little bull an' lef me dat 
pacin' filly in de stall I" 

Here the old man's tears were running freely 
as he brought down his fist and exclaimed : 
**Dat's my luck— dat's Ole Wash's luck all 
ober ! Why, boss^ ef I'd buy er carload ob ice 
in Augus' an' ship it to Hades dey'd cum er big 
freeze down dar de night befo' it got dar, an' dey 
wouldn't be no demand fur it de naixt day ! O, 
I b'leeves in hoss-prophets," he said, ironically, 
'an' ain't I jes' waitin' fur de next paper to tell 
me to hold on to dat filly endurin' a'teen-ninety- 
next-century ! I'll b'leeve — " 
154 



from Tennessee 

But the old man never got any farther ; he was 
interrupted by a great commotion in the back 
yard. He went out of the door like a two-year- 
old, but soon came prancing back like Strathberry 
in hobbles. 

'* Thank goodness !" he said, **rve sold 'er ! 
Tvesold'er ! !" 

*' To whom ?'M asked, surprised now, myself. 

**To de Louisville an' Nashville railroad," he 
said — ** ten pacin' crosses at fifty dollars a cross ! 
Yo' see, boss," he said, breathlessly, *'de ole 
'oman wuz ridin' her to mill jes' now, an' she got 
to jawin' wid ernudder 'oman jes' er little too 
long to miss er frate train dat cum eriong, an' dat 
orter stopped 'twell she got through talkin', an' 
hit killed de filly an' broke de old 'oman's jaw, 
an' de doctah say she can't talk no mo' twell next 
Christmas ! Thang Gawd fur two sech blessins ! 
— de rightus am nurver fursaken !" And he 
rushed out to find a lawyer, but not until he had 
drawn off the following quaint account which he 
asked me to send to the company : 

L. &N. R. R...... Dr. 

To Ole Wash. 
Nov. I, 1895. 

To breakin' Dinah's jaw ^000.05 

To sale of ten pacin ' crosses at ^50 a cross,.;^5oo.oo 

;f500.05 
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Songs and Stories 

N. B. — Gentlemen : 

Pay fur de crosses an' I'll knock off fur de 
jaw. OLE WASH. 

And later, when he pocketed his money, he 
chuckled and remarked to me : ** I tell yo', boss, 
dey ain't nuffm lak crossin' our fillies on a loco- 
motive to improve de breed in dis state." 

It took a lawsuit, but — he sold her ! 



156 



from Tennessee 



HOW OLD WASH CAPTURED A GUN. 

** JENNIE, the famous dun mule of Wilson 
J county, Kansas, is dead. Jennie was so old 
that men had long since quit guessing on her age. 
She was gray over the eyes when Jim Johnson 
drove her into Wilson county, and that occurred 
in 1 87 1. She bore on her hip the United States 
army brand, and popular tradition had it that she 
participated in the Mexican war." 

When old Wash saw the above in a newspaper, 
he was very much exercised and wanted to go 
over to Kansas to see about it. 

**Why, suh," he said, **dat*s de same dun 
mule I wuz plowin' on a rocky hillside up at 
Double Branches in de fall of a'teen sixty-two, 
when Wilson's raiders cum through Tennessee 
an' tuk me an' dat mule bofe eriong an' made 
sojers outen us. Hit's jes' lak de paper sed — I 
knowed ebry ha'r on her, an' she wuz trottin' 
bred frum her head-end to her lightnin' end, bein' 
by a Spanish jack outen a mair by a son ob im- 
ported Messenger. She wuz drapped de fall 
157 



Songs and Stories 

Jeems K. Poke wuz 'lected preserdent, an' she 
went thru de Mexerkin war, jes' lak de paper say. 
Ef dey'll only dig her up an' see ef she's got a 
scar on her lef hin' heel dey won't be no doubt ob 
it at all. She got dat scar by kicken' a solid shot 
' frum a forty-pounder, dat de Mexerkins had fired 
at our men, back into de Mexekin line, an' killin' 
er whole rigerment ob Mexekins jes' in de act ob 
sayin' deir ebenin' prayer ! Fur de Lord sake, 
boss, hit's de truth ! I wudn't lie 'bout er mule ! 
An' I jes' lak ter see her onct mo' — fur she wuz 
de cause ob my bein' so inderpendent terday." 

** How was that ?" I asked. ** I thought you 
said Wilson's raiders got you both." 

** So dey did, so dey did," he said, ** an' dat's 
depint I'm arter. Yo' see, dey tuck us bofe an' 
made sojers outen us. Dey put de dun mule to 
pullin' cannons an' put me to diggin' ditches, 
wid er whole rigerment ob yudder niggers, an' 
throwin' up breastworks an' tunnelin' hills 'round 
Nashville. I swear to yo', suh, ef ennybody 
thinks sojernin' am play, jes' let 'em jine de army 
de naixt scrap Unk Sam gits into. Befo' ninety 
days am out dey'll yearn fer white-winged peace 
wusser den de animules shet up in de ark yearned 
fur de flutter ob de dove's wing ! 

** But wusser times wuz comin' ! An' when 
Hood's army cum in de Yankees gin us guns an' 
tole us we had ter fight or be cotch an' hung ter 
telegraf postes ! Says I to de offercer : 
158 



from Tennessee 

*"Good Lord, Marse Yankee, I don't wanter 
shoot at no white folks ! 'Spose I happen to hit 
Ole Marster, or one of Mister Forrest's men, 
whut dem white folks gwi' do ter dis nigger ef 
dey ketch 'im ? Nigger don't kno' nuffin' 'bout 
huntin' ennything but possums — lemme do de 
diggin'. Sez I, M'd ruther dig er hole ter Chiny 
fur yo' dan ter face dem cannons ob Mister For- 
rest's men wid Marse John Morton er puilin' ob 
de trigger !' 

** But dat jes' made de offercer mad wid me, 
an' he tole me ef we didn't go an' shoot dey'd 
hang us fur disserters. I tell yo' boss, de nigger 
whut wuz captured an' pressed inter datwar wuz 
sho' in er tight place. Ef he didn't fight de 
Yankees hung 'im, an' ef he did fight de Johnnies 
shot 'im ! Gawd, I don't want no mo' ob it ! 
Dey ain't gwi' git me in no war wid Spain ! 

*' Wal, suh, dey saunt me out to de frunt soon 
es Gineral Hood got posted on de hills souf ob 
Nashville, an' dey marched us all out in de line ter 
take er big gun on er hill. I swear to yo', boss, 
ef yo' ain't nurver been marched up ter take er 
big gun an' hit loaded an' pinted at yo', yo' don't 
kno' whut it am to hab de mos' miserbul, un- 
komplementry feelin's in dis wurl chasing each 
yudder up an' down yo' back-bone. Ebery step 
I tuk it 'peared lak my feet jes' stuck to de 
yearth, an' I wuz so skeered de cold sweat stood 
in beads all ober my gun-barrel ! Ebry bone in 
159 



Songs and Stories 

my body got stiff es er stick 'cept my backbone, 
an' dat jes' seem ter wanter curl up an' lay down 
on de sunny side ob sumpin' an' go to sleep. 

'* When we fus' started we wuz two miles frum 
dat gun, an' hit didn't seem to be much bigger'n 
a locus' tree, an' de hole in it 'bout big ernuff fur 
er rabbit ter run in. But befo' we marched fifty 
yards, boss, dat gun wuz es big es de bigges' 
poplar in de woods, wid er hole in it big ernuff fur 
er she ba'r an' her cubs ter crawl in, an' hit wuz 
p'inted straight at my head — jes' picked me out 
an' nobody else ! I stood it fer er leetle while, 
an' when de offercers wan't lookin' I drapped out 
ob de ranks an' fell in ergin 'way down to de lef, 
an' t'inks I : * Yo' ain't p'intin' at me now, sho' !' 
but, bless yo' soul, when I look up ergin dar it wuz 
p'intin' at me an' nobody else ! I nurver heurd 
ob er gun singlin' out one nigger in er thousan' 
befo', but dat's whut dat gun wuz doin' ! 

** We marched on er leetle furder, till I seed de 
ball startin* outen it. I seed de fiah flash an' de 
ball start out jes' es plain es I see de sun in heaben 
dis minnit 1 At fust it wan't bigger den de moon, 
but befo' it got half-way cross dat valley it wuz 
big es de sun, an' es it cum rollin' on straight fur 
me,fo' de Lord, boss, it got bigger an' bigger, twell 
it looked lak ernudder wurl rollin' on, black es 
de pit ob doom, an' spitten' out fiah an' brim- 
stone, an' smoke an' saltpeter, an' Gord-knows- 
whut, an' rollin', an' er-r-o-l-l-lin', an' er-r-o-1- 
i6o 



from Tennessee 

l-i-n' es straight fur me es ef I wuz de onlies' 
nigger in de whole rigerment! Hits de truf ef I eber 
tole hit ! 

*' Jes' den de offercer he holler out, ^Charge !' 
an' I charged sho' nuff — dat's whut I'd bin 
wantin' ter doeber sence I started. I charged fur 
er rock fence lak er groun' squir'l. But when I 
peeped ober dat fence der cum dat ball straight 
fur me ergin, er rollin' an' er r-o-l-l-lin' an' er 
r-o-l-l-i-n ! I got up frum dar an' lit out roun' 
Marse John Overton's brick smoke-house, an' 
den I peeped frum roun' de cornder ob dat house, 
an' I hope I may go in de trottin' hoss bizness 
jes' on de ebe ob de naixt Clevelan' misrepre- 
sentashum, an' see my thousan' dollar colts go 
beggin' fur coon skins, ef dat ball wasn't headed 
straight fur dat smoke-house jes' lak hit knew I 
wuz dar — er rollin', an' er r-o-l-lin', an' er r-o-l- 
l-i-n' ! * Gord,' sez I, ' I can't stay heah !' An' 
I lit out an' tacked ercross er hundred-acre wheat 
fiel', runnin' fust dis way an' den dat, an' 'roun' 
an' roun' er big hill, but dat ball jes' tuck ercross 
de fiel', too, an' tacked when Hacked, an' turned 
cornders when I turned cornders, an' went 'roun' 
an' 'roun' dat hill, er rollin' an' er r-o-l-lin' 
straight fur me an' nobody else, an' I'd bin er 
dead nigger dis day ef I hadn't fell in er twenty- 
foot sink hole jes' es de ball tuck off my cap an' 
rolled on, killen' ten thousan' men fo' miles on 
de yudder side ob de ribber, an' bored dat tunnel 
i6i 



Songs and Stories 

thru* de hill dis side ob Nashville whar de Ellen N 
railroad now run dey trains thru' ebery day ! — 
er rollin' an' er r-o-l-l-lin ! Gord, suh, it am de 
truf — I wudn't tell er lie fur sech er thing es er 
cannon ball, an' dar's de tunnel dar, yo' kin go 
thru' ennydayan' see fur yo'sef," and he bit off 
a piece of tobacco and shook his head long and 
earnestly. 

**Avery narrow escape," I remarked, **but 
that does not explain how that old dun mule was 
the cause of your present prosperity." 

** I'm cummin' tadat now," he said as he put 
his tobacco back into his hat, his red handkerchief 
on his tobacco, and the whole on his head. 
**When I fell in dat sink hole er runnin' frum 
dat ball, I broke three ribs, an' Gord bless yo' 
soul, honey, Uncle Sam ain't gwi' see his sojers 
suffer in dey ole aige fur hunurbul wounds got in 
battle, an' ef I ain't drawin' ebry quarter, three 
dollars an' sixty-two cents fur each one ob dem 
ribs den my name ain't ShadrackEbenezer Zadoc 
Washington Grundy, an' dat's de truf !" 



162 



from Tennessee 



BR'ER WASHINGTON'S ARRAIGNMENT. 

**T AIN'T nurvertole yo' 'bout de time dey had 
1 me up befo' de jedge at Nashville fur makin', 
without license, er leetle ob dat licker dat makes 
kings ob us all, is I ?" asked old Wash the 
other day. **I don't kno' how in de wurl dey 
kotch me," continued the old darkey, *' fur I'd 
bin makin' it eber sense de war up in der holler ob 
de Indian Camp Springs, whar de Indians made 
it long, long ergo, befo' enny ob us wuz bohn — 
jes' fo' or five galuns to keep de old man's cow- 
ketcher gwine," he continued, **an' I don't see 
how in de wurl dese heah river-new offercers 
foun' it out. But dey did, an' fur one time de ole 
man wuz sho' in a tight place. 

*' Yo' see," he continued, "it ain't ebrybody 
kno' how ter make good whisky. I don't mean 
dis heah stuff dese po' white trash makes up in 
de mountings so strong an' vile dat when yo' on- 
cork a bottle ob it on dis yearth it make de debbil 
sneeze in de reguns below. But I'm talkin' 'bout 
sho' nuff whisky — whisky daf sho' nuff white 
163 



Songs and Stories 

folks drink — so pyore an' ripe dat all yo' hafter 
do is ter oncork de stopper on dis yearth an' 
watch de roses bloom in paradise. 

*'Yo' must make it in October," he said, 
knowingly, **er 'bout de time de fall poet begins 
ter write his poem on de golden rod, when de 
leabs begin ter turn purple an' golden, an' de air 
am crisp an' sparklin', an' de spring water am 
full ob fallin' nuts an' de 'romer ob de sweet 
night dews. Yo' mus' kotch yore water frum 
outen er col' spring dat flows frum under sum 
sweet paw-paw tree, runnin' ober er bed-rock ob 
blue limestone, in which er few acuns dun drapt 
ter gib it de strenf ob de oak tree. Den, sum 
night when de moon am full an' de sent ob de 
wild haws fill all de air, jes' go out — but dar now," 
he said, laughingly, **whut's all dat gotter do 
wid dis story ? Nemmine, jes' yo' cum 'roun' 
to my cabin sum day, child, an' lemme let yo' 
taste it onct. It's den yo'll see de gates ob glory 
open fur er minnit er two, an' de ladder ob kon- 
solashun run up an' down 'twixt de heaben an' 
de yearth. O, it's den yo'll wish yore neck wuz 
er spiral pipe, runnin' roun' an' roun', so dat one 
drink would hafter go fifty miles befo' it got outer 
sight," and the old man laughed heartily. 

" But dey cotch me," he continued, *' an' dey 

tuck me to Nashville, an' when dey put me in de 

jail my folks all got erroun' me an' cried an' tole 

me good-bye, an' my wife she tuck it pow'ful 

164 



from Tennessee 

hard an' she wanted ter go an' git de preacher ter 
cum an' pray fur me. Dat's de way wid sum 
Christuns," said the old man, with a tinge of sar- 
casm in his tone; **dey willin' ernuff ter play 
hide-an'-seek wid de debbil long es dey think dey 
am safe, but jes' es soon es dey gits cotched up 
wid den dey wanter go in partnership wid de 
Lawd ! Huh ! Dey didn't skeer me 'tall, an' I 
jes' say ter my wife : * Look heah, Dinah, yo' 
jes' stop yore wailin' an' bellowment an' go on 
home, an' ef I ain't dar by cane-grindin' time, 
yo' jes' go on an' marry Brer Peter Dawson, de 
preacher, an' on de night ob yoreweddin' supper, 
yo' jes' go down ter de medder spring, dig fo' foot 
under it, an' fetch out dat blue demmerjohn ob 
bred-in-de-purple licker I berrid dar fo'teen years 
ergo, an' yo' an' Brer Peter jes' drink it ter my 
health, fur ef yo' don't, it's so pyore an' good 
an' ripe it will rise itself sum day !" 

**She kno' by dat I warn't gwi' stay dere in 
dat jail," chuckled the old man ; ** I didn't make 
dat whisky fur my wife's secun' husban' ter 
drink. Huh ! I had no noshun ob stayin' in no 
jail twell cane-grindin' time. Not fur makin' 
good whisky — now ef I made mean whisky dat 
ud bin ernudder thing an' I'd bin willin' to plead 
gilty an' say far'well. 

**Den dey saunt er leetle lawyer ter me an' 
he tuck me off an' say he bin 'ployed to offen' 
me. An' den he say he gwi' prove I wuz a 
165 



Songs and Stories 

yallerby — 'dough yo' sees yo'sef I'm es black es 
er cro' — an' he say he gwi' git out er writ ob 
circum-cumfetchum, an' ignis fat-yo'-us, an' abe- 
et-de-corpus an' all dat. I tole 'im I much er- 
bleege ter him, but I wuz gwi' go dar an' tell de 
truf an' talk to dat jedge myse'f, an' wuz gwi' 
file er cross-cut-saw-bill into dat cote, sho'! 

" Jes' fo' de trial cum off, I saunt down to my 
wife an' tole her ter dig up dat gallun I dun berrid 
down dar in de medder fo'teen years befo' an' ter 
fill up dat decanter my ole Marster gib me befo' 
he die, an' ter fotch it ter me. 

**Yo' nurver seed dat decanter, is yo' suh ? 
O, I tell yo' my ole Marster wuz er high roller, 
an' dat decanter wus er picture in er lookin' glass. 
It wuz es thick es de roun' pastern ob de race 
boss, an' made ob one solid piece ob cut glass, 
an' cyarved in cammeos an' Greek god dermites, 
an' de stopper itself wuz de haid ob de Venus 
hersef on er bust — leastwise datwhutole Marster 
sed — an' he 'lowed she wuz sho' in de proper 
place ter be on a bust ! I tell yo' suh, when dat 
whisky got in dat decanter it look lak de grape 
juice ob heaven cotch in er dimon' urn an' framed 
in all de classic glory ob de ainshunt Greeks. 
When de sunlight fall on it, it look lak er big 
blazin' ruby sot in de crown ob er cherubin ! 

*M slip it under my cote an' went in ter de 
cote-room. An' dar dey played er mean trick on 
me, fur dey sot me down in de same pen wid er 
i66 



from Tennessee 

lot ob po' white trash frum de mountings dat had 
bin cotch in de act ob makin' wild-cat whisky ! 
Gord, suh, hit made me mad, fur I wan't used 
ter 'soshatin' wid dat kind o' white folks ! 

** Toreckly de jedge an' de jury cum in an' de 
jedge sot down an' red out : ' Newnighted States 
ergin Washington Grundy.' 

** * Heah, Marster,' sez I, an' Gord bless yore 
soul, honey, I pranced up befo' dat jedge inner- 
cent lookin' es de new-born colt when he paced 
ober de speckled calf layin' in de weeds. Den 
de jedge look ober his glasses sorter kind lak — 
Gord bless yo', honey, he knows er gemman 
when he sees him ! — an' he red sumpin ergin me 
an' den he ax me ef I'm gilty or not gilty. 

** * Yes, Marster,' sez I, * I'm gilty an' not 
gilty, too, an' I'd lak ter 'splain to this honorbul 
cote how it am.' 

** De jedge he smile an' de jury laf — Gord bless 
yo', honey, dey knows er gemman when dey 
meet 'im in de rode, too — an' de jedge he tells me 
I has de right ter make enny explunashuns I 
wants — dat dat wuz my privulage, an' when he 
sed dat, I jes' made 'im er low bow, wid my hat 
under my arm, an' sez I : * Thank yo', Marster, 
yo' am ergemrmijjli©', an' er jedge lak de jedges ...^ 
ob de Bible.' /An' I laid erside my hat, button { 
up tight my ole dubble-brested King Alfrud cote, 
dat ole Marster gin me, whut he useter wear when 
be made big speeches, an' I sez : 
167 



Songs and Stories 

Marse jedge an' gemmen ob de jury, yo' 
sees befo' yo' heah a pore old nigger, cotch in de 
act uf manufactorin', fur his stommick's sake, a 
leetle ob dat dervine stuff dat makes kings ob us 
all, an' fur dat reezun, fotch up, in his ole aige, 
befo' dis honorbul cote fur transgreshuns ob de 
law. Yo' ax me ef I'm gilty ob makin' whisky 
— dat wild-cat stuff dat makes de rag-weeds 
bloom in paradise, an' turns de roses ob hope into 
de dog-fennel ob dispair, an' I tells yo'— No ! 
But ef yo' ax me ef I gilty ob makin' er leetle ob 
dat dervine 'lixer, which turns de tuneless hart 
ob de mos' wretched an' misserbul ob mankind 
inter a hall wid harps ob er thousan' strings, es I 
nurver tole er lie in my life, I must tell yo' — Yes ! 
Not dat vile stuff dat kills our moral s'washun, 
an' lays us in de gutter wid de dorgs, but dat 
blessed angul-ile, which, taken in moderashun, es 
er gemman should, clothes de beggar in silk, 
makes frien's fur de frien'less an' coins gold fur 
de goldless. Dis am de licker dat turns rags inter 
roses, ole maids inter bloomin' gals an' er grabe- 
yard funeral discorse inter er poem on parerdise. 
Dat puts cheerity inter our harts, youth in our 
veins, an' spreads de warm cumfort ob lub over 
de feather-bed ob de yunerverse. Dis am de 
licker dat onlocks de doors ob de magernashun 
an' leads de poet's mind through de streets 
ob gold, 'mid crystal pillars, up ter de wall ob 
amerthest, up ter de battlements ob light, 
i68 



from Tennessee 

whar he sees de stars ob beautiful thoughts, 
a millyun miles befo' dey gets ter him, 
cummin on angel wings in beams ob sun- 
light ! Dis am de licker dat falls lak a splinter 
ob starlight ter string de dewdraps ob de hart. 
Dat Sollermon drunk, an' David sung to ; dat 
Washington praised, an' Ole Hick'ry swore by. 
Heah it am, gemmen ob de jury,' an' I pulled out 
dat decanter an' hilt it befo' dey eyes, an' it 
blind 'em, lak de sunshine risin' in de valley — 
* heah it am, gemmen ob de jury,' I sed, ' wid 
truth in its eyes, an' lub in its heart — de em- 
bottled poem ob de yunerverse ! Taste it, an' ef 
it am whisky — dat stuff wid cat-claws an' debbil 
breath — den sen' me up 'long wid dis po' white 
trash fur makin' wild-cat whisky, es er groveller 
wid swine an' er eater ob husks. 

** * But ef it smells lak de new-bohn bref ob de 
infunt anguls, looks inter yore eyes lak de lakes 
ob lub in de depths ob de blue-eyed cherubins, 
an' tastes lak de resurrected dream ob de fus' 
kiss yore sweet-hart gib yo' in de days ob long 
ergo, den sot de ole man free !' 

**Wid dat, I oncorks de bottle, an' lo ! dat 
dingy ole cote-room change in er minnit ! 'Stid 
ob de smell ob books, an' sweatin' lawyers, an' 
ambeer, an' dusty floors, yo'd er thort all de 
skule gals an' nymphs ob de ages hed cum dar ter 
bathe, perfumed wid de otter ob de roses ob Eden 
an' dey ha'r dat fell oberdey allerbaster sholders 
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Songs and Stories 

'nointed wid de oil Eppollo made. Yo'd er thout 
de janitor ob heaben bed turned de sprinklin' pot 
ob glory on de yearth, filled wid de water ob 
peppermint an' camfire, purfumed wid vi'lets an' 
tinctured wid angul tears ! 

**De ole figured paper on de walls blossumed 
inter rale flowers ; de dingy ole winders blazed 
lak de winders ob mohnin' when de day-king 
rise ; de ole dusty mattin' on de floor wuz er 
carpet ob blue-grass down in de medder, wid 
daisys an' daffodils all ober it, an' eben de spider- 
webs on de ceilin' wuz changed inter tapestry ob 
silver, whilst de freskoes hung down in fillergree 
works ob gold. I looked at de jedge an' de jury, 
an' dar dey sot in stuperment an' 'stonishment, 
wid acquittal writ in de tender depths ob dey 
meltin' eyes. 

'' I handed dat decanter to de fus' juryman — he 
jes' smelt it an' fell ober in er dead faint, callin' 
out, sorter dream lak, * Not gilty, not gilty.' De 
naixt one taste it, an' I seed de light ob Genersis 
break in on 'im. De thud one tuck er big swaller 
an' dey had to hold 'im to de yearthto keep 'im 
frum 'vaporatin', lak Exerdus, to heaben. An' 
all de yudders, es fast es dey taste it, wuz added 
to de numbers ob dem dat wuz fur me ! But 
when it got ter de jedge, suh, he tuck er grate 
big swaller ter see ef I wuz lyin' or not, an' Gord 
bless yore soul, honey, he hadn't mor'n taste it 
befo' he riz frum dat bench, shouted * Glory, 
170 



from Tennessee 

hallyluyer !' an' fell on my neck an' wept. I 
look 'roun' at de lawyurs what hadn't tasted it, 
suh, an' dar dey sot, froze ter dey chairs, wid de 
s'liver runnin' outen de corners ob dey mouths 
lak po' houns 'roun' er sawsage mill. An' befo' 
I knowed whut it all mean dey all broke out 
singin' dat good ole him : 

** * Dis am de stuff we long hab sought, 
An' mourned bekase we foun' it not.' 

** When I seed I had 'em on de mourner's bench, 
suh, den it wuz my time ! I drawed mysef up two 
er three foot higher, buttoned up my ole King Al- 
frud cote anudder link, an' sed : 

**'An'now, gemmen ob de jury, sense dis 
Newnighted States govument dun see fit to 'raign 
me, I wanter 'raign hit. I've bin heah befo', 
yo' honor. I've bin heah to listen to de greates' 
lawyer de State ob Tennessee eber raised, my 
ole Marster, de 'Onerbul Felix Grundy, an' time 
an' ergin I've seed 'im stand rat heah, in dis very 
cote dat I've got on, an' in dis very room, an' 
shake de roof wid de thunder ob his larnin' an' 
de lightnin' ob his wit. Allers on de side ob de 
po', allers on de side of jestus. An' ef he wuz 
erlive terday, he'd git up heah an' say to yo' all : 
* Let dis ole nigger go !' — an' yo' kno' yo'd do it. 

** Mn de good ole days, gemmen, he tort me 
menny things. He tort me to be true, to tell de 
truf an' ter raise bosses. Men lak him an' yore 
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Songs and Stories 

fathers, gemmen, tuck my ancesturs out ob de 
jungles ob barbarity an' led us inter de blessed 
temple ob religun an' light. Dey made slaves ob 
us ter do it, gemmen, but I thang Gord I wuz 
erlowed ter be er slave in dis wurl furde sake ob 
bein' etunnally free in de naixt. Menny an' 
menny er time, gemmen, I've driv my ole Mars- 
ter in his cheeriut an' fo', an' he'd tell yo' hissef, 
ef he wuz heah terday, I'm de onlies' nigger lef 
in de State ob Tennessee dat kin drive er thur- 
rerbred fo'-in-han', holdin' de ribbins wid d^ fo' 
fingers ob my lef han' an' playin' on de tender 
moufs es gently es er lady touches de strings ob 
de light gittar. He made me er Christun an' er 
gemman, aigucated my po' cannabal pallit to de 
glory ob Tennessee mutten an'de sweetness ob 
Tennessee beef. An' it wuz frum his side-board 
I fus' got de taste ob dat liker yo' jes' tasted — dat 
licker dat makes kings ob us all — an' all I wanted 
in dis wurl wuz to stay wid 'im twell I die. 

*'*But in my ole aige, heah cums dis New- 
nighted States guvermen' an' sots me free. An' 
O, Marsters, dey sot me free indeed — -free frum 
de friends I lubbed, free frum de cumperney ob 
gemmen, free frum de good things ob de wurl, an', 
wuss ob all, free frum de sight but not de appertite 
ob dat licker dat makes kings ob us all ! 'Stid 
ob drivin' er cheeriut an fo' down de pike ob de 
valley ob plenty, I mus' plow er leetle tow-haided 
muel on de flinty hillsides ob poverty. 'Stid ob 
172 



from Tennessee 

'soshatin* wid learned men who sot in de counsils 
ob dis country an' de cotes ob de kings, I mus' 
be cussed an' mocked by de hill-billy an' de po' 
white, or forced to 'soshate wid low-lived an' 
low-mannered niggers an' fiel'-han's. An' 'stid 
ob drinkin' de 'lixer ob life frum de decanter ob 
de gords, in my ole aige, I'm forced ter drink de 
branch water ob poverty frum de gourd dat grows 
in de barn-yard ob toil. Aigucated er gemman, 
turned out wid tuffs ! Raised on roast beef an' 
mutton, now hafter hustle ter git bacon an' 
greens ! Used ter de licker ob civerlizashun, now 
hafter drink de branch water ob barbarety. An' 
ef I chance ter remember de things ob my youth 
an' yield ter de temptashun ob er higher aigu- 
cashun, fotch up heah in my ole aige ter be saunt 
ter jail fur tryin' ter lib lak er gemman an' er 
Christun. Gemmen, kin yo' do it ? Marsters, 
will yo' sen' de ole man up ?' 

*'*No! by the Eternal, we won't!' said er 
nice lookin' gemman dat wuz settin' on de jury, 
an' den dey all riz an' say : ' Jedge, not gilty ! 
Not gilty !' An' dey crowd 'roun' me so de jedge 
has ter 'journ cote, an' dey shook my han' wid 
de glory ob dat licker still in dey eyes shinin' lak 
cherubins in de lakes ob lub. An' es de jedge 
pass out he tech my arm an' say : 

*** Washington, de jury foun' yo' not gilty, 
but heah am fifty dollars to pay de tax on de 
naixt run ob de still at Indian Camp Springs; 
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Songs and Stories 



an' ef it happens ter be er good deal too much 
ter pay de river-new, jes' make er leetle mo' an' 
send it ter yore friend, de jedge ob de Suddern 

\ 



Deestricl< ob de Newnighted States.' " '^ 



174 



from Tennessee 



A CAVALRY DRILL IN OLD TENNESSEE. 

''"T^ALL in, gentlemen, fall in! Two erbreast 
I there, an' no foolishness ! Tom Riddick, 
can't you keep that mule still ? Come, come, 
gentlemen, do fall in at the command ! Do git 
into line ! Promptness is the fust thing in mil- 
ertary." 

It was a balmy Saturday evening in a village 
of Tennessee— a drill day with the boys — about 
the year 1850. To correctly understand this 
sketch, and it is taken from nature, I must first 
ask you to remember that from its earliest his- 
tory Tennessee has been called the '* Volunteer 
state," an appellation won by the promptness 
of her sons to respond to their country's call 
for volunteers. In fact, the state may almost 
be said to have been born fighting, if such 
a term may be applied to an abstract common- 
wealth, for certain it is that her sons played a 
conspicuous part in the revolutionary war, before 
the then '' western territory of North Carolina " 
had been divided off into the present state of 
Tennessee. After that war the aggressive spirit 
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Songs and Stories 

of the warlike tribe of Indians which occupied the 
beautiful country of middle and west Tennessee 
and the fine virgin land of the Gulf States as- 
sisted in no small degree in keeping up that mili- 
tary spirit so earnestly begun in the earlier days. 
It needed only the fiery spirit of Andrew Jackson 
to firmly fix the fighting spirit of the state, and in 
him it received the full measure of all that was 
needed — yes, and more. The head and front of 
all this military enthusiasm was centered in the 
infantry musters, cavalry drills being rarer, and, 
we believe, not often attempted till the period 
directly following the Mexican war, and then not 
to the extent of the old musters. The following 
account given me by an octogenarian of the 
good old times I have endeavored faithfully to 
narrate. If it appears a little rough, pray re- 
member that those were rough and ready times, 
and that to attempt to describe the drill without 
giving the language and personnel of the drillers 
would be like painting a battle scene and leaving 
out the blood. 

**Fall in, gentlemen, fall in !'* 

This command came from Col. Dick Posey, a 
fine old gentleman of sixty years, who had seen 
service in the war of 1812 and the Mexican war, 
brave, honest, simple and unaffected, but who 
had forgotten all his military learning except a 
proud and martial bearing, and that *' all cavalry- 
men must turn out their toes while riding." On 
176 



from Tennessee 

this particular evening the Colonel's bearing was 
truly grand, the occasion being one of great im- 
portance to him ; for aside from the fact that he 
was proud of the military position he held and the 
reputation he had made in the war, it was well- 
known that the Colonel was a candidate for the 
state legislature, and much of his success de- 
pended on the manner in which he displayed his 
knowledge of war. He was mounted on a long, 
slim, raw-boned black mare, whose every rib 
could be counted, but as fat as a nervous three- 
quarter thoroughbred could well be with the sad- 
dle scarcely ever off of her during the day, and 
as often as once a week good for a half-night's 
chase after the hounds. She carried a high head 
and a rat-tail, and was so thin in the girth that 
the Colonel could almost wrap his long legs 
around her. Withal, she was a great fool and 
ready to shy at the slightest provocation, a trick 
which gave her owner the opportunity he wanted 
to show off his skill as a rider. 

To the Colonel's side was buckled a long saber 
that nearly touched the ground, balanced by a 
pistol in a holster that looked large enough to be 
a leather coffm for a baby mummy. This pistol, 
by the way, was of a character that I cannot, in 
justice, pass over without a word as to its indi- 
viduality. It was loaded by means of powder, 
balls and caps, and was nearly as heavy as a 
sporting gun of to-day. Its peculiarity lay in the 

12 177 



Songs and Stories 

fact that it was exceedingly "touchous" about 
going off, and if loaded too heavily, when fired, 
every chamber went off simultaneously, the balls 
flying in every direction except straight forward. 
It required more skill to fire it without killing 
everybody on each side of it than it now requires 
to properly fire a Catling or a Hotchkiss. But 
to return to the Colonel. A homespun suit, dyed 
with copperas, a slouched hat and feather and 
cavalry boots completed his attire. 

His company consisted of fifty or more farmers 
mounted on nearly every beast that the soil of 
the state would grow. Jim McHyde, the wit of the 
village, had even ridden in on a steer, decorated 
with cow-bells ; and, suddenly rushing out from 
the thicket behind the only ** grocery " in town, 
he plunged into the ranks with such a clang and 
shout as to stampede the entire company for a 
moment. As the occasion was one of more or 
less fun, Jim was ordered out, his steer turned 
loose, and Jim himself was told to get up the old 
cannon, brought back from Mexico, and fire it 
after the drill was over ; a part of the military ex- 
ercises scrupulously carried out at every drill, 
chiefly to impress the importance of the occasion 
on the small boys and ** women folks" of the 
surrounding country. The company had been 
coming in since twelve o'clock. The grocery, 
nowadays euphoniously called the saloon, had 
done a rushing business. Several horse swaps 
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from Tennessee 

had taken place, there had been three *' quarter- 
horse races " down the main street of the village, 
and a fight or two was not omitted from the regu- 
lar program. Many of the company had ridden 
in on brood mares, and as it was the spring of the 
year these had brought their colts along with 
them. Each colt had been carefully criticised by 
a bunch of judges, while its proud owner en- 
thusiastically pointed out its fine points and ex- 
patiated on its breeding. Finally, the company 
had all assembled, and, after mounting. Colonel 
Posey advanced towards the bunch, exclaiming : 

** Fall in now, gentlemen, fall in ! Two er- 
breast an' set straight in the saddle. Git in quick 
an' turn out yer toes," and he rode behind the 
bunch of men, mares and mules. 

At this command there was a general spurring 
and rush as each one endeavored to get into line 
with military promptness, but no one seemed to 
know where the line was and how to get into it, 
and to add to the general confusion, the colts got 
mixed up and rushed around neighing for their 
respective dams. 

** Colonel," said Dick Thompson, who was 
mounted on a small grey mule, ** hadn't these 
here colts better be penned fust ? One ov 'em is 
here pesterin' my ole mule mighty," he remarked, 
as several of the colts in the general confusion 
were going around nudging their noses under the 
flanks of any four-legged beast they could find. 
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Songs and Stories - 

**A great idee, Dick," said the Colonel. 
** Gentlemen, all them that's mounted on brood 
mares will please go into Cooper's stable yard 
and shut in the colts." At this, for twenty min- 
utes there was the greatest confusion in getting 
each colt to follow its dam into the stable yard, 
and much more in slipping the dam out and leav- 
ing the colt behind ; but it was finally accom- 
plished. 

**Now, gentlemen," said the Colonel, as he rode 
around the bunch again, *' form inter two straight 
lines; set straight in yer saddles, and turn out 
yer toes ! Yes, gentlemen, no foolin' now. Lay 
erside yer pranks, git inter line, set straight" — • 
riding down the line very erect — '*in yer saddles 
and turn out yer — whoa, Molly ! — yer toes. 
Dick, set straight there, won't you .? Git inter 
line, boys ; fall inter line !" 

'* Colonel, there ain't no line to fall inter," said 
Dick, chagrined at being personally mentioned in 
the matter — " how kin a feller fall inter a thing 
that ain't.?" 

*' That's about so, Dick," said the Colonel; 
** you're right. Here, Josh Giddens !" — seizing 
Josh's horse by the bit — ** keep right still. Now, 
boys, form side and side to Josh Giddens. Don't 
git too close, now ; leave room to use your saber 
arm and to turn out yer toes. Here, boys, help 
Dick to pull that mule into line — damn er mule, I 
say " — seeing Dick's mule holding back and roll- 
i8o 



from Tennessee 

ing the white of his eyes around at the crowd on 
each side of him. '' That's right ; now form a 
second line behind this one — good ergin ! That's 
er good platoon — hold yer hosses still ! Stop 
talkin' in ranks ! — there, now, gentlemen, don't 
bring enny more touchous horses here — don't do 
it — war means killin', but it don't mean gettin' 
yer head kicked off by some boss in yer own line. 
(This on account of a gray mare letting fly both 
heels at an inquisitive mule behind her.) Now, 
gentlemen, have yer formed ?" — riding down the 
line and inspecting it. 

**Yes, yes; well, that's pritty good, pritty 
good. A fine-looking body of men — equal to any 
I saw in Mexico. Now, gentlemen, pay strict 
attention to the commands — set straight in yer 
saddles and turn out yer toes — hold yer pieces 
right — set straight — look square to the front — turn 
out yer — " 

Bang ! ! ! 

This discharge came from the old cannon which 
Jim McHyde, in a spirit of fun and backed by the 
boys of the village, had drawn up under an oak 
tree in the rear of the company, and, having 
loaded it with a half-pound of pov/der, and waited 
till the company was intently interested in the 
Colonel's instructions, had quietly applied a red- 
hot iron to the fuse as he stood behind the tree, 
and watched the effect the discharge would have 
on the company in front. 
i8i 



Songs and Stories 

And it was startling. All were country horses, 
unused to battle's grim roar, and as the fearful 
discharge thundered in their rear, many whirled 
round to face the dread monster, but the most of 
them were seized with a keen desire to get out of 
the way. Dick's gray mule shot forward as if 
he had been the projectile itself, and many of the 
others followed suit. The Colonel's mare, much 
to her owner's disgust, whirled, and, fixing both 
eyes and ears on the cloud of smoke, seemed 
afraid to turn her back and run, but immediately 
began to back off down the road with surprising 
agility, leaving her rider powerless to stop her. 
When fifty yards down the road she concluded 
she was far enough to turn tail without being 
devoured by the unknown monster ; so, seeing a 
convenient corner, she suddenly whirled, nearly 
unseating her rider, and made frantic efforts to 
get away. It took twenty minutes to restore 
order and place Jim McHyde under arrest, which 
the Colonel did without delay, punctuated with 
language more impressive than elegant. As the 
only safe place was the rear end of the bar-room, 
forty of the company immediately volunteered 
their services to take the luckless Jim there and 
keep him till further orders. Two were detailed, 
and Jim was forced to '* treat " them on arrival. 

The arrest of Jim satisfied all parties, and they 
again formed in lines. 

**Now, gentlemen," said the Colonel, 'Met's 
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from Tennessee 

all be quiet. The unexpected very often happens 
in war, an' we must be prepared. But the man 
who violates the rules always gets his jes' dues." 
(Here the company looked longingly toward the 
bar-room, where Jim and his guards could be 
plainly seen taking a three-fmgered drink, and 
they were not fully convinced that Jim's punish- 
ment was a just reward.) ** But let us to duty," 
he added. '* Now, I am fust goin' to drill you in 
the use of the saber, and all them that's got guns 
will bring 'em to a half-cock." (Here there was 
a general clicking down the rank. Many of them 
had, contrary to cavalry rules, brought their flint 
and steel muskets, and Ab Perkins' had only one 
notch on it, it was so old, and when at full cock 
the steel was almost below the stock itself.) **A 
half-cock, Mr. Perkins, if you please," said the 
Colonel; * Mower your hammer to the first 
notch." 

'* Kurnel, my ole gun ain't got but one notch," 
said Ab, and he added, with dry humor : *' She 
goes to h — 1 after fire, but when she gits it she 
comes back with er bucketful." 

At this wit of Ab the entire company broke out 
into a laugh, in which the Colonel joined, and as 
his gun had so bad a reputation and visited places 
of questionable resort, Ab was allowed to take it 
out of ranks and go and help keep Jim McHyde 
straight. 

** Kurnel," said Sam Johnston, a small, red- 
183 



Songs and Stories 

headed warrior, who was almost too full to sit 
straight in the saddle, ** don't — you think — sum- 
p'n's wrong with — my old— gun?" (holding it up, 
cocking and recocking it with a most puzzled look 
on his face). ** She 'peers — to — click — pow'ful 
— ku'is — to me." 

**Yes, Sam," said the Colonel, who recog- 
nized the fact that Sam and his gun were both 
too heavily loaded, '*and you may both go off," 
an order he was not long carrying out, but fol- 
lowed with the taunts of the company, and such 
remarks as **Set straight in yer saddle, Sam !" 
*' Turn out yer toes, Sam!" and " Look at ole 
wool hat an' yeller briches on a billy goat !" But 
Sam headed for the grocery, and rode on. 

*' Now, gentlemen," said the commander, *Vas 
we've got rid of all them that can't drill properly, 
an' the rest of us is gentlemen an' horsemen, 
let's get down to business. Now, as captain of 
this mounted cavalry company, it is my duty — 
in fact, I am commanded by the laws of Tennes- 
see" — here he pulled out a paper from his pocket 
and read : * To properly drill the same in all re- 
quirements of cavalry drill and practice.' ** Now, 
gentlemen," said the Colonel as he rode slowly 
down the line and seemed at a loss to know ex- 
actly where to start, ** the fust, an', in fact, the 
only rule that I ever heard of in the Mexican war 
was the one that we useter have an' practice. I 
never read it out of a book, but somehow or other 
184 



from Tennessee 

we all kinder centered to it, an' it's the only rule 
I know of. I kin give you that rule in er few 
words, for it's all I know," he said, apologet- 
ically, ^'erbout cavalry, an' it's jes' this: Set 
straight in yer saddle, turn out yer toes, an' ride 
at the enemy !" and he emphasized the rule, as 
he repeated it slowly, by shaking his index finger 
and gravely gesticulating. 

** Colonel, don't we have to arm and mount 
fust?" 

This question came from the ranks — from Major 
Peeler — a gentleman aboutthe age of the Colonel, 
who had also served in the Mexican war, and 
who thought he knew quite as much of military 
matters as the Colonel. Out of ranks he was 
never happier than when telling of the various 
battles he was engaged in ; in ranks he took 
every occasion to correct any errors the Colonel 
might make, much to that gentleman's disgust. 
In fact, he had been a candidate against the 
Colonel for the captaincy of this company, but 
being self-important and arrogant and a poor 
*' mixer," he had met the fate of all such in this 
free country and been left in the ranks. 

*'Arm and mount fust!" exclaimed the Colonel, 
hotly. **Why, we're supposed to be mounted 
or else we'd be nothing but infantry ! Look er 
here. Major," said the Colonel, with a good deal 
of spirit, **ef you want to drill this company, 
sir, I'll send in my resignation." 

** Go on, Colonel, go on !" shouted the com- 
ics 



Songs and Stories 

pany, who were beginning to get tired. ''Of 
course you're right. Cal'v'ry bound to be 
mounted ! Ennybody knows that. Go on, don't 
resign, drill us and let's go home." 

"Well, then, gentlemen," said the Colonel, 
calming down at this manifestation of his popu- 
larity with the boys, " as I was sayin', the only 
rule I know is to set straight in the saddle, turn 
out yer toes, an' ride at the enemy. An' right in 
that rule is where we got the bes' of the Mexi- 
cans ; for their rule, es fur es I was able to see, 
was to hump up themselves on their grass-bellied 
ponies an' git up an' git. Yes, gentlemen, by 
knowin' an' enforcin' this rule we whipped the 
dirty greasers in every battle, an' by follerin' it 
to-morrer," he added, rising in his stirrups and 
shaking his saber, "we kin whip the whole 
world." Here the company yelled out its ap- 
plause in a long, dismal howl, and, when it had 
died away, a squeaking voice shouted in the 
further rank, " Whooraw for our rule an' Jeems 
K. Polk." 

" So that's the fust rule," said the Colonel ; 
" now, how to do this is the next ; " for the 
Colonel saw that as he had but one rule he must 
try to spread out what he did have as far as possi- 
ble. 

" First, set straight in yer saddle, like you see 

me" — riding down the line with his shoulders 

thrown uncomfortably back. "Yer coat-buttons 

square between yer horse's ears, yer left hand 

i86 



from Tennessee 

holdin* yer reins, yer right graspin' yer sword, 
with the pint elevated about forty-five degrees, 
yer toes turned well out, so !'' And he rode 
down the line in great style, at sight of which 
every man straightened himself up as near like 
the Colonel as possible. 

** Second, gentlemen, you must ride at the 
enemy. Now *at,* gentlemen, is a very little 
word, but it is bigger than a bombshell in battle, 
and means more than everything else ; in fact, 
gentlemen, it's about the chief thing of this im- 
portant rule, although it appears so small. Ef 
you'd leave out all the other words in this rule, 
and jes' git into yer saddles an' say at 'em ! and 
then do it, you'd come mighty nigh knowin' all 
the rules of war. Don't gallop around nor ride 
about, then stop, but at, straight at, and do it 
dam fast, to keep yer courage up !" 

**How about making a detour and a flank 
movement ?" inquired the irrepressible Major 
Peeler. 

*' Detours and flank movements," repeated the 
Colonel, sarcastically. ** Them's mighty high- 
soundin' words, Major, but they ain't worth er 
dam in war. Where," said he, getting excited 
and waving his sword, '* did we ever make enny 
detours in the Mexican war ? The only detour I 
ever saw," he thundered with withering sarcasm, 
** was when a piece of an Alabama and Tennes- 
see regiment made a detour after a Mexican 
187 



Songs and Stories 

goose roast one night, an' got cut off from the 
regular army ; they came detouring back to camp 
the next mornin' with a pack of greasers at their 
heels — the only time in the whole war that enny 
of our troops showed their heels to a Mexican." 

This last was a home thrust, for it was well- 
known in the village that the Major had been the 
leader of the unfortunate company that went off 
on the raid and came home so precipitately. 

** Now, gentlemen," said the Colonel, *' I have 
told you all the rules an' we'll now put 'em into 
practice. We'll now proceed to march ; but we 
won't go no further " — apologetically, since some 
of the men began to grumble about moving at all 
— '*than the black-oak stump at the cross-roads 
an' back ergin. Now, when I say 'forward,' 
you mustn't go forward, but only prepare for it; 
but when I say * march,' why jes' spur up an' 
walk off." Here there was a visible commotion 
in ranks, as several of the men had been sitting 
sideways in the saddle during a part of this 
long discourse, and they began to get into proper 
position. **Now, let us try," resumed the 
Colonel. 

'* Forward " — waiting a few moments — *' hold 
on ! hold on ! stop ! stop ! Don't you recollect 
I said you mustn't go till I said march ?" This 
to the men eager to get off, and starting off in 
every kind of time at the command, forward. 
**Now, git inter line ergin; it looks like you'll 
i88 



from Tennessee 

never learn anything. Why, dammit, gentlemen, 
you almost make me swear !" 

After much confusion they again got into line. 

''Now, gentlemen," he continued, ''please 
recollect an' don't fergit. Be very careful. 
When I say march, why, move off ; if I say trot, 
why, jes' trot ; if I say gallop, why, jes' gallop. 
This milertary business ain't nothin' but common 
sense rigged up with a sword an' a cocked hat. 
Everything is plain, an' don't fergit it, nor to 
keep your toes turned out!" 

"We won't. Colonel," came from the com- 
pany. " Do let us git off — it's nearly sundown." 

"Well, then, forward, march J^' and after a 
good deal of spurring and clucking some of the 
company moved off and the others gradually fol- 
lowed suit, a sight to behold, since every animal 
in it had a gait peculiar to its breed and the wear 
and tear of the plow. Some went fast, some 
slow ; some paced and others trotted. The rear 
rank ran into the front line, while the flanks be- 
came detached from the main body and struck off 
in a separate bunch, headed for the bar-room. 
The rest of the line was in a zig-zag condition, 
and its path would have been the line of a worm 
fence moving to the gate as an objective point. 
At this point some one left the gate of Cooper's 
stable yard open, and the colts came tearing out, 
whinnying and rushing into lines, hunting for their 
respective dams. These came to a dead halt, with 
189 



Songs and Stories 

many signs of satisfaction and motherly proceed- 
ings. 

Now, the Colonel was a man of wonderful re- 
sources and intuitive forethought. He saw that 
the military would have to succumb to the civil 
unless something was done, and that very 
quickly, to maintain the dignity of the former. 
It was evident that Mars must give way to Venus, 
and that without the formality of ceremony. To 
one less gifted than the Colonel, the day's drill 
would have ended in confusion and disgrace. 
Not so with him. Riding to the front, with a look 
on his face as if he had expected all this and it 
was a part of his program, he issued a command 
never before heard in military science — nay, not 
even in the Mexican war. Rising in his stirrups, 
he shouted, in his deepest voice : 

*'Halt, and suckle colts 1" 

This seemed to please everybody, including 
the colts, after which the company took a drink 
around and rode off to their homes, thoroughly 
satisfied they knew all that was necessary for 
cavalry to learn. 



190 



from Tennessee 



THE TRUE SINGER. 

I STARTED out for my usual drive the other 
evening, and the first thing I drove into 
was a stratum — no, a flood — of melody. I pulled 
up quickly and looked all around. I could hear 
it but I could not see the musician. It seemed to 
come from everywhere. I knew the rascal that 
was making it, and the white oak tree he was in, 
but the mocking bird, like all true singers, is so 
unpretentious in his make-up, and so near the 
color of nature generally, that I could scarcely 
tell him from the big, honest limb he was sitting 
on. And I knew well enough, too, why his 
music seemed to come from everywhere — he 
drew it from everywhere, and he never pours it 
out twice in the same direction. Ah, he is the 
true singer ! Watch him just now a minute and 
see. While his little gray throat swells and puffs 
and rolls like miniature bellows, and his tiny 
eyes, *Mn a fine frenzy rolling," dart about here 
and there, now at the earth and now at the 
heavens above him, notice how his little head 
191 



Songs and Stories 

moves from side to side, pouring his song in every 
direction, and varying it to suit every new and 
beautiful sight that flashes across the retina of 
the tiny sentinels in his eyes. It is almost comi- 
cal to see how earnest he is — not to sing, but to 
sing of some new thing. And so he '* doth glance 
from earth to heaven, from heaven to earth,'' 
and involuntarily he pours out the impression 
that he sees. 

** You are the true singer, old fellow," I said, 
as my heart welled up at the lesson he was teach- 
ing me, and I pulled off my hat in his presence. 
**You are the true singer. Spring is glorious, 
but you are not singing of spring until your spring 
song is a spring joke among the other birds. The 
heavens are blue but you don't dwell on them 
always. The fields are green and sunshiny and 
beautiful, but only a glint of them has crept into 
your music. Your mate died in the terrible freeze 
of last winter, and that tender flutter of crape in 
your song was just enough to draw us to you. 
Had you hung out your black flag, as some folks 
do who imagine they are mourning thereby for the 
dead, or had you poured your misery between 
me and the sunshine, I would ride on and tell you 
to go and mate with a blackbird. But O, what a 
singer you are ! A little of the fields, a gleam 
from the air, a glint from the sunshine and a glow 
of the skies. A memory of a dead love, a tiny 
bit of mocking humor, a quaint shaft of musical 
192 



from Tennessee 

satire, a withering take-off on some catbird who 
thinks he, too, is a singer and has tried to imitate 
you, and a jolly laugh at the foibles of man. 
Twinkles, jests, raptures, dreams ; dances, 
songs, brooks, flowers; sermons, poems, music, 
stars — and all of it — -heaven ! 

And before I had time to tire, he dropped off 
the limb in an ecstasy of delight, singing all the 
time, and, sweeping in long curves just over my 
head, he flew up the shaded pike till his varia- 
tions died away in the distance. 



13 193 



Songs and Stories 



HOW THE BISHOP BROKE THE RECORD. 

(Old Wash is a Baptist, and it was with great 
difficulty and many misgivings that I induced him 
to go out to the Episcopal church recently and hear 
the Bishop of Tennessee preach. The old man 
went wild over the sermon, and this is the 
peculiar way he took to tell about it.)* 

** A A J^^^ ^^^' ^ went in dar an* sot down in dat 
VV part ob de gran' stand set off fur de 
colored folks. I look erroun' an' seed leetle ban- 
nisters an' things runnin' 'round 'boutde prooties' 
an' neates' mile track you eber seed, wid de 
fence all painted wid gold an' lit up wid 'lectric 
lights. Beautiful pictures hung up in de club house 
gallery an' de soft light cum in through de painted 
winders. I tell yo', sah, dese yere Piscolopiums 
kno' how to keep dey church track, ef dey do stick 

* To avoid any impression of disrespect I may say that 
my friend, the actual Bishop of Tennessee, has expressed 
his personal enjoyment of this story. — J. T. M. 
194 



from Tennessee 

to de high wheel sulky, an' kinder think dat er re- 
cord made dar, at dat way ob gwine, will 'title 'em 
to registration in de final year book quickern enny 
yudder track. An' it wuz ergood un — fer it run 
erroun' es smooth es er widder's courtship, an' it 
hed bin harrered an' scraped an' rolled till it wuz 
es slick es er carpet ob banana peels. 

**Yo' ain't nurver noticed how dese church 
tracks differ frum one er nudder, hes yo'. Boss?" 
asked the old man, with a sly smile. ** Wal, dey 
do. Now, ef dat hed bin er Mefodis track it 
wouldn't er hed no fence erroun' it, kinder free 
fur all, no money to be paid at de gate an' free 
lunch fur ebrybody. Ef it had bin a Baptis' track 
it would er bin out in some big medder bottom, 
an' stid ob bein' roun', it would jes' foller de 
meanderins ob de ribber, handy fur spungin' off 
de bosses. An' dey wouldn't 'low nuifm' to go 
on dat track but pacers, either, an' dey must all 
be ob de Hal fambly — kinder close kin, yer kno'. 
De Presberteiians would er had dey track es 
'roun' es it cud be, an' sech er high, whitewashed 
fence 'roun' it dat nobody cud see ober it, an' 
'bout ebry haf hour dey would run out er big fo'- 
hoss sprinkler, furever sprinklin' an' sprinklin' 
it, eben fur de yearlin' races. O, it's funny ter 
see how dey all deffer," he said. 

** But dar dis one wuz, es prooty es it cud be, 
an' free fur all. An' jes' off to de lef dey had 
de nices' leetle jedges' stan' all painted in silver 
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Songs and Stories 

an' trimmed wid gold, while de timers' box sat on 
de right wid leetle peep holes in it an' pictures ob 
flyin' things wid wings jes' erbove — bosses dat had 
broken de recurds, I spec. Jes' den de ban' in de 
ban' stan' struck up de sweetes' music I urver 
heurd. It went all through my soul an' made me 
feel like I wuz er chile ergin an' my good ole mam- 
my, long dead an' gone, wuz singin' me ter sleep at 
de cabin on de ole plantashun, to de tune ob * De 
ole folks at home.' Den de perfume floated out 
like de smell ob de jess'mins I useter smell by de 
cabin do', an' de candles flickered on de quarter 
posts like de fireflies in de dusk ob my childhood 
days, an' all dese things jes' made me hongry to 
heah sum good gospil ergin. Bimeby, sum leetle 
angel boys all dressed in white wid shinin' col- 
lars cum marchin' in singin' an' bringin' programs 
fur de races in dey ban's — leastwise dat's whut I 
tuk 'em to be. I tell yo', sah, it wuz gran', an' 
es I sot dar an' tuck it all in an' looked at dat 
shinin' track wid de golden fence, I sed to 
myself : 

** * Great Scott ! but ef dey can't go fas' on dis 
track I lakter kno' whut de yuse ob tryin' enny 
yudder !' 

** When de music stopped de feller in de jedges' 
stan' made some 'nouncements an' den he 'lowed 
dat de Bishop ob Tennessee would go er exer- 
bishun mile ergin time, an' den I heurd de bell 
ring tingerling, tingerling, an' de ban' struck up 
196 



from Tennessee 

lively lak, an' de Bishop cum pacin' in. Soon as 
I looked at 'im, sez I : 

'** He'll do — he's er good un ! Got mos' too 
much riggin' on 'im to suit my taste, but den 
ebry man knows whut's bes' fur his own boss. 
Ef he wuz mine I'd take off dat sweater an' white 
blankit wid red embroidery, dem knee boots an' 
dat obercheck. His gait's all right an' true es 
clockwork, an' he don't need nuffm' but er pair 
ob quarter boots an' fo'-ounce shoes. But dat's 
all right,' I sed ergin, * eberybody knows whut's 
bes' fur his own boss an' dem fancy riggins am 
prooty, ter-be-sho'.' 

** Graceful ? He wuz es graceful es er swan 
on er silver lake, an' es he paced up de quarter 
stretch to sco' down, I seed dat he wuz gwinter 
gib de recurd er close call. Down he cum so 
smooth yo'cudden'tsee his riggin', an' es nachul 
es er eagle draps frum his mountin peak in de 
valley belo'. Dey didn't hafter say ' go ' to him 
but onc't, an' den he went erway lak er winged 
angel on de top spar ob er flyin' yot. 

'* * He that loseth his life for my sake shall save 
it,' he said, an' ebry lick he hit went home to de 
ole man's hart. O, hit wuz er clip. He tuck up 
Greek art an' literachure, an' he painted it so 
beautiful yo' cud see de statue ob Diana beam 
outen his eyes an' de grace ob Apollo fall frum 
his hands. Away he went at dat prooty clip till 
he sud'n'y shifted his gait an' struck de follies ob 
197 



Songs and Stories 

dis wurl, an' den I seed whut all dat riggin' wuz 
fur, fur he turned it into er toga an' he looked 
lak Jupiter es he shook de roof wid his speed an' 
his stride. 

*'*He's gwine too fast fur de fus' quarter,' I 
sed, es I sotholdin' mybref ; but befo' de wurds 
wuz out he seed it, too, an' he check up er leetle 
an' he cum down es gently es de summer winds 
play — but ergitten' dar all de time ! — an' den he 
tell us how all dis art an' all dis interlect want 
nuffm' ef we didn't lub God an' do right an' lib 
pure libes, an' his voice wuz lak de music ob de 
winds in de valley, an' ebrything he say jes' 
peer to be dat way an' no argyment — an' all de 
time he wuz jes' ergitten' dar — an' es he passed 
de fus' quarter I cudden't help it, I jes' tuck out 
my ole watch an' snapped it, an' dar it stood — 30 
seconds, holy Moses ! 

** But dat didn't wind 'im, fer he started in de 
naixt quarter so fas' I thout sho' he gwine fly in 
de air. But he didn't. He fairly burnt up de 
track ob sin an' folly an' littleness an' meanness, 
an' he made de leetle rail birds ob selfishness fly 
to de woods, an' de gamblers ob society went off 
to hedge, an' de touts ob scandal slunk erway, 
an' de drivers ob trick an' cheat hunted for er- 
nuther track, an' de timers ob folly throwd erway 
dey watch — an' all de time he wuz ergittin dar — 
an' he nurver teched hissef nur struck er boot 
nur missed his clip, an' he made de ole high wheel 
198 



from Tennessee 

sulky trimble all over lak er leaf in de storm, an' 
he showed how eberbody reap whut dey sow ; 
how de artis' lib in art, an' de po-it in po- 
itry, an' de patriot in de harts ob his countrymen, 
all arter dey dun dead an' buried. 'An' O,' he 
sed, so sarchin' lak I see de folks trimble, * ef 
yo' lib fur de wurl yo'll die wid de wurl ; but ef 
yo' lib fur God yo'll nurver die.' An' I cud see 
it all so plain an' so quick an' so terribul an' so 
true I jes' pulled out my ole timer ergin es he 
passed de haf, an' click ! dar she stood — 59}^ ! 

** * By de horn ob de Tabbernacle,' sez I, 'he 
can't keep up dat clip ! Dat's de haf dat burnt 
up Joe Patchen !' 

** But I tell yo'. Boss, his name wuz P'inter — 
he had no noshun ob quittin'. He spun erlong 
on de straight stretches lak he had er runnin' 
mate, an' yo'd wonder whut hilt 'im to de yearth, 
den he ease up gently on de turns ob de track — 
whar he hit de doubters an' de 'siety an' de fools 
* dat grasp at de bubbles ob wealth an' folly on 
de ribber, an' let de mighty stream wid all its 
depth an' grandeur pass onnoticed to de ocean ' 
— es he sed, he ease up dar an' ketch his bref so 
gently lak, an' sorrerful yo'd think he gwine stop 
an' weep fur 'em, an' yo' feel lak weepin' yore- 
se'f, fur yore own follies an' de follies ob de wurl 
— but all de time he wuz gittin' dar ! — an' ef he 
did ease up es he went up de hill, it wuz only jes' 
long enuf ter let de light shine down on him frum 
199 



Songs and Stories 

heben, an' he seemed to linger jes' er minnit in 
de sweetnes' ob its glory. 

'*I wiped erway a tear an' snapped my ole 
timer ergin— 1:30}^ ! * Dat's good Baptis' doc- 
trine/ sez I, 'ef it am a trifle speedy. Lord, ef 
he do bust de recurd I hope yo'll gib 'im de At- 
lantic ocean to spunge off in — sumpin' in keepin' 
wid his own nachur.' An' den I close my eyes 
gently lak, I feel so good, an' I sing softly to my- 
sef dat good ole hymn, sung by Moses an' de 
profets so long ergo : 

** ' Baptis', Baptis' is my name 

I'm Baptis' till I die. 
I've been baptized in de Baptis' church, 
Gwin'ter eat all de Baptis' pie ! 

Hard trials, 
Great tribelashuns, chilluns, 

Hard trials, 
I'm gwine ter leab dis wurl.' 

'* But bless yo', honey, he wuz jes' playin' on 
dem yudder quarters ; he commenced ter pace 
now. He got right down on de groun', an' dough 
he didn't make no fuss an' yo' cudn't see er 
moshun, nur eben de spokes ob de sulky, he 
talked lak er dyin' muther ter her wayward boy. 
He scorned de track ob dis wurl an' seemed ter 
be pacin' in de pure air ob God, an' yit he didn't 
rouse er angry wind, nur bring out deloud shouts 
frum de wurldy gran' stan', nur de hoozars ob 
200 



from Tennessee 

victory, nor de wild frenzy ob delight — but jes' 
tears, sweet tears. I cried lal< er baby. I furgot 
ter time 'im. -De soft light cum in frum de win- 
der ob God an' got inter de winder ob de ole man's 
hart. De smell ob de yearthly flowers wuz 
turned to Heabenly ones, an' when his soft, 
'pealin' voice died away an' de sweet 'pealin' 
music commenced, I cudn't tell whar de sermin 
ended an' de music begun, dey run togedder so. 
I sot in er sort ob er dream ; I wanted ter go ter 
Heaben ; I heurd de white folks all pass quietly 
out ; I heurd de notes ob de organ die erway, but 
I sot in de cornder, way off by mysef, an' thanked 
God dat I'd seed de light an' heurd de recurd ob 
salvation busted." 



20I 



Songs and Stories 



FIRST MONDAY IN TENNESSEE. 

LAST Monday was '* First Monday" in Ten- 
nessee, and if you have ever been in a 
Tennessee town on that eventful day in April, 
you will know what it means without any further 
description. I hope you have, because it cannot 
be accurately described except by sight — and the 
looker-on, to do it justice, should have as many 
eyes lying around loose upon him, and decking 
his terminal facilities, as the famous Argus of old. 
For this is the day of the year to the average 
citizen of the Volunteer State. On that day, 
every owner of a lordly stallion, every obstreper- 
ous breeder of a dulcet-toned jack, every proud 
possessor of a cantankerous bull with clay on his 
horns and cockleburs in his tail (I am referring 
to the bull, of course) is expected to be out with 
his family and his friends, to show the kind of live 
stock on which he has pinned his faith. And 
they are all there. 

Tennessee was admitted into the Union June 
I, 1796, and, so far as I have been able to learn, 
202 



from Tennessee 

this time-honored day was admitted with her. 
In fact, I think it was tacitly understood at the 
time, that, whether the state obtained certain 
representatives in Congress or not, whether the 
boundary ended with the Mississippi or the Ten- 
nessee, whether the Indian lands should be 
bought up or not, all of these might be decided as 
the National Congress should decree ; but if 
** First Monday" couldn't come in, in the lan- 
guage of old Hickory, **By the eternal, boys, 
we'll stay out of the little old Union till she grows 
big enough to take in our First Monday." But, 
happily, no opposition was offered, and to-day 
Tennesseans would fight for ** First Monday" 
quicker than they would for the privilege of brew- 
ing the mountain corn juice under the shadowy 
cliffs of the Big Smoky. 

For what, indeed, would life be worth to the 
horse-loving Tennessean, if deprived of the privi- 
lege of showing off, on the first Monday of each 
April, his pacing stallion, decked with enough red 
blankets to cover the nakedness of darkest Africa, 
and with halter and reins sufficiently strong to 
anchor a man-of-war at sea ? Bonaparte, cross- 
ing the Alps on his restless war-horse (as a mat- 
ter of fact, it was a mule, the chiefest product 
of middle Tennessee, but I use ''restless war- 
horse" for poetical effect), and looking down 
upon the plains of Italy, was not so proud and 
happy as is the average Tennessean in the horse 
203 



Songs and Stories 

parade around the Court House square, holding 
his mettlesome roan pacer in check and proudly 
proclaiming to the gaping crowd around him : 
** Yes, boys, this is a Tom Hal !" 

** First Monday " is founded on a simple and 
beautiful custom so old that its origin is lost in the 
haze of those who came first over the mountains 
to settle in the beautiful Wautaga valley. I have 
taken great pains to look up this matter and get 
at the origin of it. And you will never guess, 
gentle reader, how it really started. Be not sur- 
prised, then, when I solemnly proclaim to you 
that the festive ground-hog is the father of the 
v^hole business — the ground-hog with his incom- 
parable weather bureau department ! 

** Pray explain yourself," I hear you say. 
** How could so simple an animal as a ground-hog 
originate such a time-honored custom as an an- 
nual stock parade on * First Monday ?' " 

It is simple enough. To begin with, Tennes- 
see has always banked on the ground-hog as a 
weather prophet — the Tennessee Ground-Hog 
Weather Department is far older than Uncle 
Sam's, and I might as well add, far more reliable. 
In the Tennessee department the ground-hog is 
the chief of the bureau ; he makes but one 
prophecy a year and he never misses it ; whereas 
the bureau at Washington makes one every day 
and generally retires at night with the sin of Ana- 
nias tacked to its official skirts, predicting rain on 
204 



from Tennessee 

the threshold of a Pharaoh famine, and prepar- 
ing us for a *Mong, dry drought " about the time 
the heavens declare the curtain will now arise on 
the Noah and the Ark act. 

But what about the ground-hog ? It is plain 
enough. On the second day of February he 
emerges from his hole in the ground to see if he 
can cast a shadow. If he can cast a shadow he 
solemnly goes back into his hole to remain six 
full weeks — which is his way of declaring that 
'* bad weather and hell ginerally is gwinter be to 
pay till de fuss Monday in April." But if the sky 
be cloudy that second day of February when he 
emerges, and he cannot cast a shadow, the official 
declaration goes forth that an early spring and 
bright days are to follow. Now do not jump at 
the conclusion, kind reader, that the Tennessee 
ground-hog ever gets so poor that he cannot cast 
a shadow if the sun be shining. Far be it from 
my intention to intimate any such thing. The 
Tennessee ground-hog, like everything else in 
this hog and hominy state, is abundantly able to 
cast any number of shadows. The term is used 
metaphorically, and is but another way of saying 
that the ground-hog emerges from his hole to see 
whether or not the sun is shining. 

Now, if the sun be shining on that second day 

of February, as aforesaid, he goes back into his 

hole to remain there for six long weeks, and 

nothing under heaven but an earthquake with a 

205 



Songs and Stories 

geyser attachment can get him out. There he 
will remain though the heavens fall, or his 
mother-in-law pays him a visit. And all the men, 
women and children in Tennessee accept his 
decision and prepare to keep on their winter flan- 
nels as per order of this absolutely reliable 
authority. Was ever anything more simple and 
plain and absolutely inexpensive ? And the 
beauty of it is, it has never been known to lie — 
it is truth itself, decked in homespun and a wool 
hat ; it is Washington with a bible in one hand 
and a pair of hatchets in the other. We com- 
mend it to the department at Washington ! 

But let us proceed with the research that 
brought us up to the origin of " First Monday." 
The connecting link is plain enough. After con- 
sulting many ancient volumes, we have dis- 
covered that originally, in the early history of the 
state, the First Monday in April, a day now en- 
tirely devoted to the display of live stock, was a 
kind of feast day in the temple of Ground-Hog- 
ium, celebrated in honor of the termination of the 
Ground-Hog's potent prophecy. As time went 
on and people began to use the pacing horse as a 
means of reaching the county site to participate 
in the festivities, great interest began to be man- 
ifested by those who were bold enough to '* ride 
a critter " (when they might just as well walk) 
in the various animals collected in the town. This 
interest gradually grew, strengthened by a horse 
206 



from Tennessee 

race now and then, and sustained by the lauda- 
ble desire in the breast of every patriotic Tennes- 
sean to see that his family relic of a horse, afflicted 
with every disease from Bright^s to ''that tired 
feeling," died the property of some unsophisti- 
cated countryman. In this way the custom was 
gradually changed from Ground-Hog worship to 
horse swapping, from a religious festival to the 
intricate diplomacy of lying about one's horse. 
And so it remains to this day. 

How often does history repeat itself. The 
Druidical worship of our old forefathers in the 
woods of Britain was the forerunner of the true 
worship of to-day ; and from the woods of Ten- 
nessee, around the sacred temple of the priestly 
Ground-Hog has emanated the beautiful custom 
of ''First Monday." 

On the day in question, the pikes are fairly 
alive with folks, peoples, horses, jacks and nig- 
gers. Observe the order in which I name these, 
kind reader ; for that order is the order in which 
they stand socially in Tennessee. Observe also, 
if you please, that I make a distinction between 
peoples and folks — folks being those who own a 
pacing horse and are able to drive or ride to town ; 
while peoples are merely common plugs who must 
walk. Peoples are further divided, I might as 
well tell, — because the distinction is quite import- 
ant in Tennessee — into three classes : those who 
are able to wear shoes and stockings, those who 
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Songs and Stories 

have shoes but no stockings, and those who go 
barefooted. You may think this is foolish and 
unnecessary distinction, but allow me to inform 
you it is based on one of the most beautiful cus- 
toms of the unwritten law of Middle Tennessee 
and one which is very closely observed in the 
state. For, when *'all hands'' have reached 
the classic town of Columbia, for instance, their 
first duty is to repair to the nearest bar for a 
drink, and here it is that the distinction between 
the folks and the three classes of peoples is so 
nicely drawn. When a portly gentleman of the 
first class walks in, his face shining behind a 
silver grey mustache, no question is asked, but 
the best in the house is set up. He's folks. But 
when one of the other class walks in, the bar- 
keeper peeps over the counter to observe his foot 
gear. If he has on shoes and stockings, the bar- 
keeper knows his purse will stand Lincoln 
County's Medium ; if he has on shoes but no 
stockings, apple brandy from the county of War- 
ren, smelling of Tam O'Shanter's midnight ride, 
is set out ; but if, in looking over the counter, 
the barkeeper's eyes meet the sprawling flabbi- 
nessof two po'-whitefeet, bust-head at five cents 
a glass is what he wants. In no case is any 
question asked except, **How are you shod, 
partner ?" 

Was ever anything more simple .? 

And so they come on ''First Monday/' — all 
208 



from Tennessee 

bound for Columbia. The country cousin rides 
his pacing stallion with a darkey bringing up the 
rear leading an ambling ass and interrupting his 
assship's repeated endeavors to keehonk, kee- 
honk every now and then by a vigorous jerking 
of his bit, much to the disgust of that classic 
animal. Two young bucks fly by in a buck- 
board drawn by a slick pacer that has given 
everybody's team the dust since they left Spring 
Hill. 

*' Say, nigger, whose jack is that ?" they yell 
out as they pass. 

*' Captain Jackson, sah," is the answer amid a 
display of ivory — caused by the implied compli- 
ment to his charge. 

** Fine feller," they shout back, ''we're fur 
him for the legislature " — but whether they 
mean the ass or the master, deponent sayeth 
not, merely remarking that, so far as the person- 
ality of the Tennessee legislature is concerned, it 
is ** a difference without a distinction." 

They are all there, **goin' to Columbia !" 

Every old lady who has a hank of yarn for sale, 
is there. Every pretty girl, showing unmistak- 
able evidence of being fixed up for the occasion, 
with too much powder over her natural roses and 
a well-I-don't-feel-exactly-kinder-easy-in-these- 
stays kind of look, is there. Every urchin who 
can bring a dozen eggs in his hat and his pockets, 
is there. All from the rich farmer behind his 
14 209 



Songs and Stories 

spanking surrey team, to the old darkey on his 
load of stove wood ; from the well-to-do farmer 
with his wife and happy children, the latter look- 
ing a little unnatural in the solemnity that has 
come over them by reason of the startling, novel 
and astonishing fact that they, too, are at last 
'*goin' to Columbia," to the poor cropper on his 
mule — they are all in the procession ! The man 
with his patent ; the officer with his papers ; that 
most detested of living men, the back-tax col- 
lector ; the man who wants to hire ; the book 
agent ; the " nigger " with a grin on his face and 
game rooster under his arm — they are all there, 
*'gwine to Columbia." On the square all is 
hustle, stir, squeaking, snorting, cackling, flying, 
braying, jostling, arguing. 

But allow me to digress right here, and ex- 
plain to you what "the square " means. There 
are two kinds of "squares" in Tennessee — 
"Square" Jones and the Court House square. 
The latter is the square I refer to. It is really 
but the meeting of four broad streets, around the 
temple of justice, where all the trade and traffick- 
ing is done. In Columbia this temple of justice 
is a most ancient and dilapidated structure, built 
with so little regard for architectural rules that the 
oldest inhabitant has never yet been able to tell 
which one of its sides was intended for the front ; 
but as it was in this building that Andrew Jack- 
son stirred his partisans, and James K. Polk was 

2IO 



from Tennessee 

wont to practice law, the citizens of the county 
would not exchange it for a duplication of the 
classic Parthenon. Around it they assemble to 
barter, to trade and to swap horses. Now, when 
people assemble to swap horses, you know what 
follows. And why they should have selected 
their temple of justice around which to do their 
lying, is more than I can tell. My private opinion 
is that the horny-fisted horse swapper believed 
he had as much right to lie around the ground 
floor of the temple as the lawyer had on the sec- 
ond floor. 

A big fellow with a catfish mouth, chin whisk- 
ers and a bald head is mounted on a wagon 
preaching free salvation to a crowd that looks 
like they thought it was a mighty long time 
between drinks ; two darkies have met on a cor- 
ner and are discussing the efficacy of baptism, 
while numbers of their dusky partisans, standing 
around, now and then exclaim, *'Dat's de truf, 
amen !" A man rushes to a door at a corner 
of the Square and rings vigorously a big dinner 
bell. It is a sign that he wants to feed them all 
at his restaurant. There are four corners to 
every square, and soon a bell is clanging at each 
of the other three corners, to let the world know 
the first fellow hadn't all the dinner. 

The parade of live stock is now formed and 
comes down the road — a long line of glistening 
flanks, arching necks, prancing steps, mincing 

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Songs and Stories 

gaits, whinnies, nickers, snorts, bellows and 
brays in semi-hemi-demi-quavers, beginning with 
Brown Hal and Duplex, and ending with Plum- 
mer Webster and Tax Payer. 

They are all there — ** gwine to Columbia." 
A twenty-foot track is made in the living crowd 
around the Court House square and half a hun- 
dred flying pacers are showing their gaits, while 
the chancellor leaves his bench and the lawyers 
their cases to look out of the windows. Across 
the street a bell is ringing at a store, and proclaims 
that the ladies of a certain church are giving a 
lunch to pay off the church debt ; an auctioneer 
is howling away, trying to sell a ten-dollar buggy 
for twenty-five dollars ; a man with a patent 
blacking, warranted to shine forever, is blacking 
the boots of all who will come to his stand ; a big 
jack brays in your ear while you are looking at 
a dog fight under a wagon ; an apple wagon, 
all the way from the ''State of Lawrence," is 
selling the rosy fruit left and right. 

Elbow your way through the crowd on the 
square and you will laugh at the fragments of 
conversation you hear as you pass — ** No, no, no, 
the wheat crop's boun' ter be a failure " — '* Is 
Sally raelly done married . at last ? Who — " 
** Fine as he kin be — sound in wind, limb an' eye 
— fust dam by Tom Hal, second dam by Pinter's 
Slasher — " ** Git out, nigger; who is you, 
enny how ?" ** Keehonk^ keehonk^ keehonk^ keeheCy 

212 



from Tennessee 

keehee, keehee-e-eow !^^ **No, no, Majah, the fun- 
damental principles of the Democratic pafty — " 
**Goin', goin', gone — sold fur twenty-five cents 
to the red-headed gentleman with a wart on 
his—" 

You never stop to learn where the wart is, for 
as you pass your attention is attracted to a vacant 
lot where a darkey is selling, to those who have 
money to buy, a cart load of X),-Uck river catfish 
and buffalo, while behind the cart, in the vacant 
lot, a negro dance is in full swing. You stop to 
listen, for the fiddler, inspired by the music of his 
fiddle and the muse of inspiration, has rhymed in 
his calls to music, and, keeping time with his feet 
to the flying bow, sings out in his peculiar chant : 

Great big fat man down in de corne. 
Dance to de gal wid de blue dress on her ; 
You little bit er feller widout eny vest 
Dance to de gal in de caliker dress. 
Git up, Jake, an' turn your partner, 
Shake dem feet as you kno' you 'orter ; 
You little red nigger wid de busted back 
Git up an' gin us de '* chicken rack." 
All hands round — O, step lite, ladies, 
Don't fling yer feet so fur in de shadies ; 
Come, you one-eyed nigger, fling 
Dem feet an' gib us de ** pigeon wing." 
Such is a faint idea of ''First Monday in Ten- 



213 



Songs and Stories 



YESTERDAY. 

THE old man tottered out to the pasture. He 
was eighty years old. 

**How difficult it is for me to walk now," he 
said, as he shuffled unsteadily along, **and how 
it tires me to go but to the pasture gate ! And 
where," he said, as he turned his whole body 
feebly around to look at an object behind — as old 
age is wont to do when the muscles have become 
stiffened in the neck — ** and where are the blue 
hills I used to see over there where the clouds and 
the sunset loved to linger, and the gray mists rose 
from the valleys like the breath of day to the 
skies above ? Are they there yet ? I cannot 
see them." 

**They are all there, grandpa," said the little 
boy who accompanied him. ''They reach all 
around and around and around, and they are 
brown here," said he, pointing with an emphatic 
fmger, **and blue yonder, and bluer further on, 
and, yes — further still — O, I can't tell whether 
it's clouds or hills, they run together so ! But, 
O, grandpa, I know that tree we just can see on 
214 



from Tennessee 

top of that far, far away hill ! That's Grundy's 
big poplar, and I went there once and saw a wild 
pigeon's nest on the first limb, and I played in 
the branch that ran at the foot of the hill, and I 
brought home wild grapes ! O, grandpa," glee- 
fully, ** let's run over there now and see if 
they are all there, and have some fun ! Do, 
grandpa !" 

The old man sighed and shuffled feebly along. 

**Alasl" he said. **But yesterday I went 
there myself, and went with my mother, and I 
saw the bird's nest and played in the brook, and 
my mother was beautiful and happy. That was 
yesterday — only yesterday. To-day I feel tired. 
To-morrow I shall rest." 

He reached the bars. A horse came up to the 
fence. He was sightless, and his sunken back 
indicated extreme age. The old man put out his 
hand over the bars to rub the horse's nose, but 
the strained position made his fingers dance un- 
certainly over the animal's face, and he drew back 
his hand because he could not hold his arm still. 

**What horse is this ?" he asked. 

**Why, grandpa! Don't you know Old 
Whip ? " said the boy. 

The old man looked hurt. '* Old Whip," he 
repeated, absently. **01d Whip. Why, yes- 
terday, only yesterday, I called him Whip — • 
Young Whip. And I stood right here at these 
bars and caught him and put your grandmother's 
215 



Songs and Stories 

saddle on him — she was forty then and hand- 
some, and your mother was five, with eyes like 
yours — and they rode Young Whip, and I rode 
by their side, and I laughed in my strength and 
happiness, and we rode to the upper place and 
gathered apples from the orchard, and picnicked 
in the woods and rode back in the evening, and I 
kissed them both and lifted them from the saddle 
and turned Whip in here only yesterday evening. 
But one night has passed — but one." 

The little boy looked puzzled. ** Why, grandpa, 
mother died when I was a baby. And grandma 
— I never saw her. That couldn't have been 
yesterday 1" 

'*Yes, yesterday, my son — yesterday — be- 
cause I have forgotten all else that came between 
it and to-day. It was yesterday — yesterday, for 
I remember it. Yesterday, twenty-five years 
ago ! Men time things wrong, my son. Our 
real time is from memory to memory — from hap- 
piness to happiness. But let us go in. I want to 
kiss my wife and the baby. I want to kiss ^hem 
to-day, for to-morrow I shall rest — yes, we shall 
all rest.'* 

And the little boy sadly led him in. 



216 



from Tennessee 



THE JULIET OF THE GRASSES. 

I AM almost afraid to tell you people how beau- 
tiful the world is down here now, for fear 
you will not ibelieve it. If I had lived in the age 
of the Aryan fire worshipers, or the Chaldean 
star worshipers, or the Greek and Roman wind 
and sun and cloud and hero worshipers, I would 
not have worshiped any of these things ; but, in 
ignorance of the true God, I think I would have 
knelt down and kissed the grass. Blue grass 
comes nearer to God than anything in the world. 
The sun is too bright and the stars are too far off 
andthe wind and clouds too uncertain and intangi- 
ble ; but grass, sweet blue-grass is with us, and 
soothes the eye as far as we can see, and rests 
the heart and the brain, and says, as plain as 
language can say it: ** Look at me, for I am a 
type of immortality.'' It is so natural and yet so 
grand, so heart-stirring and yet so soothing, so 
simple and yet so beautiful. 

There are only two things in the world that 
hurt me worse than to see little children suffer : 
217 



Songs and Stories 

one is to see some ruthless fool plow up a grass 
lot ; the other is to see the same person cut down 
a tree. I almost hate the man that will wantonly 
do these things. 

For the tree seems to me to be endowed with 
a personality and a soul. Some, I know, are 
bright and joyous, and love to live and would 
consort with their kind ; while others are sad and 
lonely and take life hard. And the grass — well, 
it is a mighty myriad army of little green peoples 
who love to grow and frolic and look pretty and 
do good. You may not know it, but it is ! 

O, we have just begun to live in this world. 
We are in our very infancy — a lot of thick-headed, 
bad-tempered, selfish little apes who think we 
know it all, and that we are great and wise and 
are living as God intended us to live. But if 
we could only look ahead and see what the true 
race is going to be a million years hence ! We 
will be less than the Cliff Dwellers to them. 
They will have stepped along to infinite heights 
over generations of progress, and do you know 
what I believe the great characteristic of the 
perfect man will be ? He will recognize life 
wherever he sees it — in stone, in tree, in grass, 
bird, animal and man. All things will be alive 
to him, and he will respect every poor little life 
that lives, and the rights of every little insignifi- 
cant thing which we Ape-men now crush beneath 
our feet. And he will love everything that God 
218 



from Tennessee 

has made, and will lie down with the grass, and 
will kiss the flowers as he would children, and 
will lean on the tree for support as he would a 
strong brother. And as for taking a human life, 
or thinking an evil thought, it will have been bred 
out of him long ago ! 

I would not like to live in a country where the 
blue grass did not grow. Somehow or other I 
have begun to associate it with the idea of divine 
good will — that God has sent it as a special sign 
of His favor and esteem, and that those unfor- 
tunate countries where it does not grow, while 
not exactly under the ban of His displeasure, yet 
do they stand in a kind of Esau, as compared to 
Jacob, relationship with Him. For that reason I 
dislike to see it plowed up, and when I see the 
cold steel going through its shimmering sod, and 
turning the long, black furrows up where heav- 
en's own carpet lay before, I feel as if it is burying 
a thousand little fairy friends I knew and loved. 

Perhaps another reason for my love of it is that 
intuitive knowledge that tells me, when I see it in 
abundance, deep and rich in the valleys and 
changing to brighter tint on the swelling hillsides, 
that there shall I see the race-horse in the glory of 
his strength and the pride of his ancestry ; there 
shall I fmd the gentle Jersey and the splendid 
Shorthorn, and the flocks of sheep, startled, per- 
haps, at our approach, and moving like a white 
billow across a sea of green and emerald. To 
219 



Songs and Stories 

me, then, it has come to represent the banner of 
the live-stock industry ; the soul of speed ; the 
coloring that gives the butter its hue, and theariel 
spirit that rollicks in the contented cud of the 
Southdown and the Shorthorn. I would like to 
live always above it, but since I cannot do that, 
I would rather at last sleep beneath it than under 
some pile of clammy stones, that will one day 
topple over to let the lizards know how dead my 
memory is. 

There is a good deal of pagan in our natures 
yet, else why are we so quick to personify ma- 
terial objects ? Almost involuntarily do we 
ascribe a gender to the inanimate things around 
us. Sometimes I think some of the rules of our 
grammar might as well be changed, and, like the 
Latins, let us call all things strong and mighty, 
masculine, and those weak and delicate, feminine. 
This would also give me a chance to place blue 
grass where in my dreams it has ever been — the 
Juliet of the grasses. 

The first to burst from the earth under the 
warming rays of the early spring sun, full grown 
before her colder natured sisters are out of their 
short frocks, she is a thing of joy and beauty, of 
impassioned fruition, voluptuous loveliness and" 
romantic impulses. In love with nature and her- 
self, she wanders by the early April brooks and 
rejoices in the first songs of the meadow lark ; a 
true philanthropist, in her tenderness of heart she 
220 



from Tennessee 

feeds from her bountiful apron the early lambs, and 
slips a sly blade or two into the mouth of the 
newborn colt, as with dry humor he makes a 
ridiculous attempt to go through the first evolu- 
tions of the gait his nature demands. A true little 
housewife, she begins at once to put her room to 
rights, and lo ! in a few days she covers her 
valley floors with the softest of Brussels, and 
decorates the hillside walls with her own favorite 
color, covering even the bare rocks and framing 
them with an artist's hand. All nature is in love 
with her. The sun sends his sunbeam children 
to play with her, and there they will be found, 
the warmest and rosiest ; here the birds congre- 
gate to sing their merriest songs, and she passes 
in and out among the flocks and herds, their 
comforter and lovely shepherdess. 

Her stoutly built Quaker sisters, the Timothies, 
come along apace, attend strictly to their own 
business, accomplish their purpose and vanish. 
That prolific wench, the Red Clover, flouncing 
out like the cook in her Sunday clothes, decked 
with many colored ribbons and smelling of rank 
perfume, raises her yellow and brown children 
and goes into winter quarters. Those old Scotch 
maids, the Orchard Grasses, come along after 
awhile, suspicious and wary, unsociable and full 
of cranks and whims, and only satisfied when off 
in knots and clans to themselves. Of course 
they are afraid of the cold, and the first cool 

221 



Songs and Stories 

breeze that comes from the north sends them 
after their winter flannels, and they vanish. In 
sharp contrast to them are the Red Tops, a lot 
of pretty flirts who flaunt their red petticoats in 
the face of decent people and cut their wild capers 
till arrested by the mowing blade and raked in for 
safe keeping. A few wild ones come here and 
there, but, like the banana-fed maids of the mild 
islands, their rotundity is unsubstantial, and their 
days are as short as their one garment of clothing. 
Even the crimson clovers rise up in serried ranks, 
lift their bloody spears to heaven, fight their 
battles and pass away. 

But what about the little Juliet ? She, too, 
blooms and fades, and for awhile it looks as if 
she will go the way of the others. Nothing but 
her fiery will and unconquered nerve sustains 
her. Shorn of her locks, demure and gentle, she 
fades under the hot sun. 

** But death's pale flag has not advanced 
there," for lo ! the gentle rains of the fall come, 
and with it the glow of her maiden beauty. Her 
pulse beats fast again ; she delights in the whirr 
of the partridge, the flight of the wild geese, and 
the flocks of the blackbirds. The Iambs are 
grown now, but come in again for her care and 
attention, as also the eager cattle and the stately 
mares. And so, like a resurrected dream of 
spring, she makes glorious the death of the year, 
sings the swan-song of autumn, and hangs her 

222 



from Tennessee 

garlands of immortality on the very snow king's 
brow. At last she sleeps a bit— but just a little 
nap — to wake again in the morning of the year, 
a blessing, a poem, a picture. 



223 



Songs and Stories 



HAL POINTER ON MEMORIAL DAY. 

T NOTICED that our old friend, Hal Pointer, 
1 turned out on Decoration Day at Tyrone, 
Pa., and honored the occasion by pacing the half- 
mile track in 2:1614^, last half in 1:09. I judge 
from the report that this was done in honor of the 
opening day of the association ; but chiefly in 
honor of the day itself — the Memorial Day of the 
brave Union dead. 

It is peculiarly fitting that Hal Pointer should do 
this, for around the home of his cradle flashed the 
hottest fires of the Civil War, and the land that 
gave him being had the temper of its heart of 
steel tried in the whitest heat of the conflict. The 
air he first breathed was the same that echoed to 
the shot and shout of Franklin ; the water he first 
drank was tributary to that which ran in red 
currents between the banks of the ** bloody Har- 
peth ;" while the very grass he first nibbled was 
made luxuriant by the blood of the blue and the 
gray. The same element of sun and soil that 
made the mortal parts of those that bared their 
224 



from Tennessee 

bosoms to the lance of war, made him ; and the 
indomitable spirit of his near ancestors was that 
which carried Forrest and Wheeler on their reck- 
less raids. If there was ever a horse which comes 
near representing the unflinching spirit of the old 
South, that horse is Hal Pointer ; and it is pecu- 
liarly appropriate, to my mind, that he should turn 
out on Memorial Day and lay, in the twilight of 
his life, the tribute wreaths of his matchless 
courage and speed on the grave of a brave and 
honored enemy. 

And why not ? What is Prejudice that it 
should claim authority to teach me to despise the 
graves of those who differed from me in life — me, 
who must so soon lie down to measure graves 
with mine enemy ? What is Hatred that I should 
allow it to put a blind bridle on me and ride me 
to the devil ? What is Ignorance that it should 
ask me to sit under the shadow of its wing and 
imagine I am a seer in the lighted halls of Wis- 
dom ? God made me free, and by God's help 
none of these shall make me his slave. 

The man in the North who will hate, after all 
these years, his brave brother in the South, is 
both a fool and a coward ; and the man in the 
South who has not learned to forgive and forget, 
who would not decorate the grave of a brave 
enemy, is twin brother to him at the North. 
Perhaps the war was a bloody blessing. God 
alone knows why it should have been. But out 
IS 225 



Songs and Stories 

of it has come a cemented Union which, God 
grant, will live forever. Does the England of to- 
day think any less of the brave Scotch whose 
independence and courage so often defied them 
around the banners of Wallace and Bruce, or the 
Irish **who have fought successfully the battles 
of all the world save their own ?" If she does, 
she must first erase from her history the glorious 
achievements of Blenheim, Trafalgar and Water- 
loo. 

I shall not have lived in vain if I can teach one 
simple lesson to the North and one equally as 
simple to the South. That lesson is quickly told : 
**Be charitable; for your enemy died believing 
he was right and fighting for the identical principle 
involved in Bunker Hill and Yorktown." For, 
strange as it may seem, the principle involved 
was identical, differing only in the manner of its 
application. 

When I hear the plaudit of a gun each morning 
and look out of my library window to see Old 
Glory flutter up to its flagstaff away above the 
tall trees of the arsenal, to catch the first kiss 
from the only light that is its equal, my heart 
swells with love and joy at its greatness and 
power. I love it because it stands for equal 
rights and equal chance for all men ; because it 
has grown so great in principle and so strong in 
might that it can say to the most arrogant of 
tyrants : '* Give your oppressed people the rights 
226 



from Tennessee 

of civilized beings," and he gives them; or to 
the most powerful: ** Tread not on the toes of 
your helpless little neighbor," and she treads not. 
Hove it for all these, but chiefly because it is the 
flag of my own country^ to the making of which 
those of my own blood and clime lent no unwill- 
ing hands. 

And yet when I look on my mantel and see the 
little faded flag there, 

** Representing nothing on God's earth now 
And naught in the waters below it," 

nothing except the blood of a valorous dead and 
the honesty of an unflinching devotion to principle 
(as if these could be nothing) I cannot, to save my 
life, help shedding tears. 

And so I live — 'twixt a smile and a tear, as 
Byron hath it — knowing that God is good and just, 
and will judge us all, not by our failures or our 
successes, but by the truthfulness and honesty of 
our purpose. 

So pace on, old Pointer, and in the sunset of 
your life do greater deeds of loving kindness than 
you ever did while vanquishing your enemies in 
the heyday of your fame — 

** Under the sod and the dew 
Waiting the Judgment day, 
Love and tears for the blue, 
Tears and love for the gray." 

227 



POEMS 



from Tennessee 



SAM DAVIS. 

MUCH has been said as to heroic deeds done 
on both sides in the Civil War. But here's 
one by a twenty-year-old boy that I do not think 
has its equal in the annals of any war — at least I 
have never been able to find anything similar to 
it. There are thousands of instances of men who 
have died fearlessly in battle, under the excite- 
ment of the contest, and numerous examples of 
soldiers who have been executed rather than 
betray their country or its cause, as was the case 
with the martyr, Nathan Hale, in our war with 
Great Britain. But I cannot find where any one 
died rather than break his word to an enemy, as 
did Sam Davis, the hero of this short sketch. 

In November, 1863, when Gen. Bragg was at 
Missionary Ridge, he wished to secure correct 
information concerning the movements of the 
Federal army in Middle Tennessee, and to find 
out if it was moving from Nashville to Corinth to 
reinforce Chattanooga. The duty was a most 
hazardous one, and four or five scouts were 
231 



Songs and Stories 

selected for the purpose, but before going were 
told that the chances were small for any of them 
getting back alive. The men selected were 
Sam Davis, a twenty-year-old boy ; Joshua 
Brown, now a physician in New York city ; W. 
J. Moore,, now a successful farmer and horse- 
man, Columbia, Tenn., and Capt. K. Coleman, 
commanding Coleman's scouts. Of these, Davis 
had obtained the most important information. 
He had counted every regiment and all the artil- 
lery in the Sixteenth corps, found out that they 
were moving on Chattanooga, and had in his 
saddle seat full and complete maps of the fortifi- 
cations at Nashville and other points, and an 
exact report of the Federal army in Tennessee. 
Mounted on a superb horse, he was recklessly 
brave, and exposed himself unnecessarily several 
times. He remained over three days after he 
should have left, to see his sweetheart, and when 
chased from near her home by Federal cavalry 
the night before he was captured, he ran away 
from them in the dark. Then turning, he ran 
back on them again, and, to demonstrate the 
superiority of his mount, he slapped their horses 
in the face with his cap as he ran by. The next 
day, while resting in a thicket, he was captured 
by the Seventh Kansas cavalry. 

Gen. G. M. Dodge, the Federal general in 
command at Pulaski, near which Davis was 
captured, found the papers in the saddle seat to 
232 



from Tennessee 

have been taken from his own table, and correctly 
surmised that some one very close to him had 
proved traitorous. A court-martial consisting of 
Col. Madison Miller, i8th Missouri infantry. Col. 
Thomas W. Gaines, 50th Missouri infantry, and 
Major Lathrop, 39th Iowa infantry, condemned 
Davis to be hanged ; but Gen. Dodge, who pitied 
his youth and admired his manliness, and who 
was very anxious to find out the traitor in his 
own camp, offered Davis his freedom if he would 
tell the name of the party who gave him the 
papers. This, with great firmness and dignity, 
Davis refused to do. Gen. Dodge says : 

*'\ took him into my private office, and told him it 
was a very serious charge that was brought against 
him ; that he was a spy, and, from what I found 
upon his person, he had accurate information in 
regard to my army, and I must know how he ob- 
tained it. I told him that he was a young man 
and did not seem to realize the danger he was in. 
Up to that time he said nothing ; but then he re- 
plied, in the most respectful and dignified manner: 

** * Gen. Dodge, I know the danger of my sit- 
uation, and am willing to take the consequences.' 

** I asked him then to give me the name of the 
person who gave him the information ; that I 
knew it must be some one near headquarters, or 
who had the confidence of the officers of my staff, 
and I repeated that I must know the source from 
which it came. I insisted that he should tell me, 
233 



Songs and Stories 

but he firmly declined to do so. I told him I 
would have to call a court-martial and have him 
tried for his life, and from the proofs we had they 
would be compelled to convict him. ; that there 
was no chance for him unless he gave the source 
of his information. He replied : 

** ' I know I will have to die, but I will not tell 
where I got my information, and there is no power 
on earth can make me tell. You are doing your 
duty as a soldier, and I am doing mine. If I have 
to die, I will do so feeling I am doing my duty to 
God and my country.' 

** I pleaded with him, and urged hini with all the 
power I possessed to give me some chance to save 
his life, for I discovered he was a most admirable 
young fellow, of the highest character and strict- 
est integrity. He then said : 

" ' It is useless to talk to me. I do not intend 
to tell. I would rather die than break my word. 
You can court-martial me, or do anything else you 
like, but I will not betray the trust reposed in me.* 
He thanked me for the interest I had taken in him, 
and I sent him back to prison. I immediately 
called a court-martial to try him." 

The day before he was executed, Davis wrote 
the following letter to his mother : 

Pulaski, Giles Co., Tenn., November 26, 1863. 
Dear Mother : Oh, how painful it is to write to you ! 
I have got to die to-morrow morning — to be hanged by the 
Federals. Mother, do not grieve for me. I must bid you 
234 



from Tennessee 

good-bye forever. Mother, I do not fear to die. Give my 
love to all. Your son, 

Samuel Davis. 

Mother, tell the children all to be good. I wish I could see 
you all once more, but 1 never will any more. Mother and 
father, do not forget me. Think of me when I am dead, 
but do not grieve for me ; it will do no good. Father, you 
can send after my remains if you want to do so. They 
will be at Pulaski, Tenn. I will leave some things, too, 
with the hotel-keeper for you. S. D. 

Gen. Dodge became still more anxious to save 
him and sent a lady in Pulaski, an old friend of 
the boy's mother, to the prisoner to beg him to 
give the information and save his life. She says 
that Davis wept and told her he would rather die 
than break his word, even to an enemy. She 
made two other attempts to persuade him, but 
without avail. 

On Friday, November 27, Davis was hand- 
cuffed, placed on his coffm, and driven in a wagon 
out to the suburbs of Pulaski, where a rope had 
been arranged for the execution. Gen. Dodge, 
who was a most kind-hearted gentleman, hoped 
he would weaken at the last moment and tell 
him the name of the traitor in his camp, and after 
the rope was adjusted he begged Davis to tell 
him the name of the person who gave him the 
papers, and promised then and there to liberate 
him, give him his horse, his side arms, and a safe 
escort back to the Confederate lines. Davis 
thanked him and said : 

235 



Songs and Stories 

*' If I had a thousand lives, I would lose them 
all before I would betray my friends or the con- 
fidence of my informer." 

He then gave the provost-marshal some keep- 
sakes for his mother and turned and said, "I am 
ready. Do your duty, men." 

No wonder the people of the South are erect- 
ing a monument to Sam Davis. Nearly two 
thousand dollars have been subscribed, some of it 
from Gen. Dodge, his staff and officers. Capt. 
H. I. Smith, of Mason City, la., in sending his 
contribution, wrote : 

*' It was a heart-rending, sickening sight to me, 
and every heart went out to him in sympathy 
and sorrow, to see him sacrificed for an act of 
duty that he was ordered to perform as a soldier, 
and which was not a crime. The stern necessi- 
ties of grim war seemed to demand that an ex- 
ample should be made of some one, and fate 
decreed that it should be Samuel Davis. I don't 
know of a more noble specimen of manhood that 
could have been chosen as a martyr for the sac- 
rifice. I had nothing to do with his capture or 
trial, being then only a non-commissioned offi- 
cer of one of the regiments in Gen. Sweeney's 
division in camp at Pulaski. I was close enough 
to see his features and countenance when he was 
executed. He was young, and seemed to be 
possessed of superior intelligence and manliness, 
and when it was understood that he was offered 
236 



from Tennessee 

life and liberty if he would divulge the name of the 
party who furnished the information in his posses- 
sion when captured, and would not betray the 
sacred trust, none of us could help but admire his 
trustworthiness and nobleness of character. It 
was a fearful test to be put to — a young man 
with life and a bright future before him ; but he 
proved equal to the test, and I think he is worthy 
of a monument to forever perpetuate his memory, 
and as a noble specimen of valor as an American 
soldier. I saw many of our hardened and bronze- 
visaged veterans, who had seen much of carnage 
and suffering, draw the backs of their rough hands 
across their eyes as they secretly wiped away 
tears. I think it was Gen. Sherman who said 
'War is hell,' and so it seemed to me on that 
occasion. Everybody was deeply affected. 
There were few dry eyes among those who were 
the sorrowful witnesses, and when the drop fell 
there was such a pall of sadness and silence that 
the air was oppressive. He was captured, I think, 
by Lieut. E. B. Spalding, of the Fifty-second 
Illinois infantry, who now resides at Sioux City, 
la. I have heard him speak in sorrow and praise 
of him, and that war and fate should decree his 
untimely and ignominous death. I served four 
years in the war, was twice wounded, and lost 
my only brother at the battle of Shiloh, and be- 
lieved then, and do now, that our cause was right. 
I have no animosity against my former foes, and 
237 



Songs and Stories 

want to see all sectional bitterness wiped out. I 
want no North, no South, East or West, but one 
common, united country, in which brotherly love 
and loyalty to a common flag will prevail, and I 
rejoice in the fact that both * Yank ' and * Johnny ' 
share equally in the benefit of our victory/' 

This is a manly letter, and Capt. Smith has 
struck the right chord — no South, no North, no 
East, no West ; and every example of loyalty 
to duty, every example of bravery, courage, 
devotion and glory, wherever found between the 
seas, to go, as this one, to the credit of the Amer- 
ican soldier. Such sentiments, thank God, have 
almost wiped out the animosities of the war, and 
the time will come when the heroic deeds of both 
sides will be the common property of the whole 
American people. 

SAM DAVIS. 

** Tell me his name and you are free,'* 
The General said, while from the tree 
The grim rope dangled threat'ningly. 

The birds ceased singing — happy birds, 
That sang of home and mother-words. 
The sunshine kissed his cheek — dear sun ; 
It loves a life that's just begun ! 
The very breezes held their breath 
To watch the fight 'twixt life and death. 
And O, how calm and sweet and free 
238 



^X ^'>x 




SAM DAVIS 
(From the Memorial Statue). 



from Tennessee 

Smiled back the hills of Tennessee ! 
Smiled back the hills, as if to say, 
** O, save your life for us to-day !" 

** Tell me his name and you are free," 
The General said, **and I shall see 
You safe within the rebel line — 
I'd love to save such life as thine/' 

A tear gleamed down the ranks of blue — 

(The bayonets were tipped with dew) 

Across the rugged cheek of war 

God's angels rolled a teary star. 

The boy looked up — 'twas this they heard : 

** And would you have me break my word ?" 

A tear stood in the General's eye : 
** My boy, I hate to see thee die — 
Give me the traitor's name and fly !'* 

Young Davis smiled, as calm and free 
As he who walked on Galilee : 
** Had I a thousand lives to live, 
Had I a thousand lives to give, 
I'd lose them — nay, I'd gladly die 
Before I'd live one life a lie !" 
He turned — for not a soldier stirred — 
** Your duty, men— I gave my word." 

The hills smiled back a farewell smile, 
The breeze sobbed o'er his hair awhile, 
The birds broke out in glad refrain, 
239 



Songs and Stories 

The sunbeams kissed his cheek again — 
Then, gathering up their blazing bars, 
They shook his name among the stars. 

O, stars, that now his brothers are, 
O, sun, his sire in truth and light, 

Go, tell the list'ning worlds afar 
Of him who died for truth and right ! 

For martyr of all martyrs he 

Who dies to save an enemy ! 

^> '%' ^' 

THE LILY OF FORT CUSTER. 

AND you want me to tell you the story, lad, 
of the old horse, Tennessee, 
The stout red roan I rode alone on the track of 

that snake Pawnee, 
The meanest Indian that ever bit dirt, and I hope 

he is roasting to-day, 
For I ain't had a mount that was any account 

since — What did you say ? 
Go on with the story ? Why, that's what I am, 

and I'm going to tell it my way ! 
A Hal he was — the Indian, you ask ? Young 

man, if I had my gun 
You'd go to the spirit land yourself before this 

here tale was done. 
Three stout crosses of running bloQd---old Trav- 
eler, Timoleon, Empire — 
240 



from Tennessee 

A Hal on that ! Aye, there's the horse the devil 

himself can't tire, 
Molded as trim as a Catling gun and full to the 

brim of its fire. 

I raised him from a colt myself. My father gave 

him to me 
When I rode West with Custer's men of the 

Seventh Cavalry, 
Away to the shade and the shadow-land, where 

the Rockies prop the sky, 
And the bison herd, like a powder-brown bird, 

afar on the trail fly — 
But we never flickered in all that ride, neither 

Tennessee nor I. 

And gaits ? There wasn't a horse in camp could 

go all the gaits like him — 
Canter and pace and single-foot and fox-trot 

smooth and trim. 
He led the wing when the bugler would sing 

** Boots and Saddles !" — Away ! 
From sun to sun there was never a run that he 

wasn't in it to stay — 
The showiest horse on dress parade, the gamest 

in the fray. 

And the Rockies ! O, the Rockies, lad ! God 

made 'em to teach us how 
To look from earth to Grandeur's birth — to His 

own great beetling brow. 
i6 241 



Songs and Stories 

I never had seen a mountain, lad ! How they 
thrilled ! — how they loomed on me ! 

Granite and cloud wrapped in a shroud of snow 
eternally, 

So different from the sweet green hills of dear old 
Tennessee. 

Homesick I grew, I know not why, when we 
camped in the far Sioux land ; 

Things were so solemn and silent there — silent 
and solemn and grand — 

And I longed again to see the plain and the roll- 
ing waves of wheat, 

And the low, soft music of the grain in the June 
days rustling sweet. 

And the gay notes of the mocking bird, where the 
Duck and the Bigby meet. 

But out at the Fort was a maiden, 

A maiden fair to see. 
And I fell dead in love with her, 

And she — with Tennessee, 
For she learned to ride upon him, 

And her gallop across the plain 
Would make you think Athena had come 

To break the winged horse again.. 

And she was the Captain's daughter, 

In rank above me far 
As above the fire-fly in the grass 

Beams out the evening star. 
242 



from Tennessee 

But Love — he smiles at epaulets 
As he laughs at bolts and bar. 

With eyes like the skies when the shower is over 
And the rain drops are soothing the cheeks of the 

clover — 
Dear drops of sympathy all too soon over ! 

And a face like a vase with two rose-buds in it, 
Rose-buds of cheeks, to change in a minute 
To the puckered-up throat of a sweet-singing 
linnet. 

And curls like the whirls of the clouds, when the 

Day-king 
Stops his bold ride to the West, ere making 
His bed in their bank and his night-goblet taking. 

And lips like the dew-wine he sips in the morning, 
Mistaking her eyes for the day's in its dawning, 
Mistaking her eyes and sweet Eos' scorning. 

And her soul ! Twas the goal of the Angels and 

Graces, 
Seen in their face as they play in their races — 
The purest of souls in the purest of places. 

And I ? 
Followed no flag but the blue of her bonnet. 
And I marched and I charged by the white 

streamers on it. 
And yet when she turned her blue batteries on me 
243 



Songs and Stories 

Brought up her reserve to ride over and scorn me. 
I was wretched, and sorry my mother had borne 

me. 
And surrendered, I did, though my heart was 

enraptured — 
A prisoner, yet gloried by her to be captured. 

And she ? 
When she was certain I'd never be free 
Gave me her pity and loved — Tennessee. 

Heydey ! And I say 

But that is the way — 
Love is a tyrant that never grows old. 

Bonnet and curl — 

Lord, all my world 
Got under that sheen of gold. 

Heydey ! Still I say 

If naught's in the way 
What glory in battling for beauty to love us ? 

Love is a star, 

To be worshipped afar, 
And, like it, should be above us. 

Heydey ! Yet I say 
There's many a way 
That love finds his own, though his own be 
not waiting. 

And lips may be mute, 
And eyes may refute, 
244 



from Tennessee 

But hearts made to mate find a way for the 

mating. 
In our long ride up from the valley 

A Pawnee chief we found — 
Old Bone-in-the-Face they called him then, 

But now — he is bone-in-the-ground. 
Starving he was when we picked him up, 

And racked with ague and pain. 
But he taught us a lesson we'll never forget. 

Which I don't mind telling again — 
The good Indians live in the school books, lad, 

The bad ones all live on the plain. 

The coyote 1 We nursed and cured him. 

And then he turned his eyes 
To the Lily, God help her ! and when she rode 

From the Fort 'neath the sweet June skies 
To pluck the flowers that grew on the plain 

(A pony she rode that day) 
The Pawnee stole the Colonel's horse 

And slipped, with a Sioux, away. 
Away on the track of the Lily, 

Like wolves on the trail of a fawn, 
Two hours before a soul in camp 

Knew the treacherous dogs were gone — 
Two hours before alarm's shrill voice 

Waked the echoing sentry's horn ! 

Away on the track of the Lily, and they lassoed 
her pony and rode 

245 



Songs and Stories 

With her bound in the saddle and helpless, to 
Sitting Bull's band at the ford — 

To Sitting Bull's tent ! for a life that was worse 
than living in hell's own abode. 

The alarm gun was sounded, we rushed through 

the gate — the Captain, the Corporal, and I — 
The moon had just risen, a trifle too late to see 

the sun sink in the sky. 
The Captain looked black as the charger he rode, 

the Corporal sat grim on his grey, 
While I ? — just patted old Tennessee's neck and 

he struck that long gallop — to stay. 

We struck the trail quickly ; 'twas plain as could 

be, the pony's flat track in the sand. 
And then it was headed as straight as a bee to the 

North, for the Sioux's bloody band. 
A mile further on it turned slight to the right — the 

Captain sprang quick to the ground. 
For there in the path was a sun-bonnet bright — 

he kissed it ; then, turning around, 

We saw the tears glitter and felt kind o' moist 

around our own hardened eyes. 
Then stood with bowed heads for a momentwhile 

each breathed a silent prayer up to the skies. 
'Twas the work of a moment to tighten our girths, 

cut loose the throat-latch and curb-chain. 
Then strike for the ford — fifty good miles away 

across the wide stretch of the plain. 
246 



from Tennessee 

**To the ford !'* cried the father, and his rowel 

shot swift as a star in the flank of his black. 
** To the ford ! There is no other place they can 

cross. To the ford ! See the course of the 

track ! 
Two hours the start ! Great God give us speed," 

as the black went away like the wind. 
** Too fast !" I called out, but he never did heed ; 

already he'd left us behind. 

*'Now, Corporal," I said, **we will test your 

grey's grit ; 'tis a ride that the stoutest 

might shun." 
And I braced myself firm, held steady the bit, 

with Tennessee struggling to run. 
But I gave not his head, for well did I know not 

a horse in the world could stand 
Fifty miles of a race at a heart-killing pace in the 

alkali dust of that land. 

Galloping, galloping, galloping on. 

Out in the moonlight, galloping on. 
No word did we speak, no sound did we heed 
But the low, muffled beat of the galloping steed. 
The grey, circling dust rose in pillars and spread 
Like the ghost of a cloud in the moonlight o'er- 

head ; 
And the sage-bush was plated with white in the 

light 
As we raced, like a running team, into the night. 
247 



Songs and Stories 

Beyond us, the peak of a towering cone, 
Fifty good miles away, on the broad Yellowstone, 
Was our snow-covered goal, in the moon-bla- 
zoned air. 
And we headed full straight for the ford that was 

there. 
Our horses pulled hard on the bit, for the dash 
Was a frolic to them in the hoof-beating crash, 
And the quick, playful snort, as onward we glide, 
From their nostrils keep time to the lengthening 

stride. 
The miles spin behind us, with bound upon bound 
Two shadows fly on like a twin-headed hound. 
My roan tossed the fleckings of foam in a ring. 
As an eagle the snow-flake that lights on his 

wing. 
And with nose to his knees and his ears laid back 
He swept a clean path through the dust-covered 
track. 
Galloping, galloping, galloping on — 
Ten miles in the moonlight, galloping on. 

But onward we went, head lowered, and bent 
To the stride like an arrow from ashen bow sent. 
My horse was now wet to the mane with his 

sweat, 
And the grey, where the dust and the moisture 

had met. 
Was white as the palfrey Godiva rode down 
Through the dead silent street of Coventry town. 
248 



from Tennessee 

His breath comes shorter and quicker — a wheeze, 
And I note that his stride is not true at the l<nees. 
I felt of my roan, brought him down to a pace, 
For the speed was terrific, the gait — 'twas a race! 
I stood in my stirrups and cut loose the cord 
Of the cantle strap — down went the full useless 

load! 
I threw off my saber and cavalry cloak. 
My rain-coat and blanket, and, bending, I spoke: 
** Steady, good Tennessee ! Steady and true, 
There's a race yet ahead, old fellow, for you. 
Just swing this long gallop for ten miles or more. 
We are frolicking now, but we'll show them 

before 
We halt in the shadow of yon mount by the flood 
The never-die spirit of Tennessee blood." 

Galloping, galloping, galloping on — 

Twenty miles in the moonlight, galloping on. 

But see ! now he pricks up his ears as we rush. 
And shies with a bound to the right from the 

brush. 
A glance, and pitifully struggling with pain 
The Captain's black horse is stretched out on 

the plain, 
And I see as I pass, with a pull on the bit. 
The scarlet blood gush from his deep nostril-pit. 
To the Corporal I said : ** Do you know what 

we passed ?" 
He nodded — ** I knew he was going too fast. 
249 



Songs and Stories 

The black was dead game, but too fat and rank 
To run twenty miles with a steel in his flank. 
Poor fellow ! But where can his rider now be ?'* 
*' Ahead, and on foot — just ahead, do you see ?** 
As a speck in the distance, a spot in the grey — 
Then a tall, lithe figure plodding away. 
He stops at the sound of our galloping hoof ; 
We draw curb a moment 'neath the silvery roof 
That rolls o'er our heads as our steeds make a 

launch. 
Planting stiff knees in sand, thrown back on their 

haunch. 
** What news ?" "Go on, and check not your 

rein," 
Said the father, as quickly he stooped on the 

plain. 
Then rising— " From the track we're an hour 

behind. 
For the love of your homes speed on like the wind ! 
But halt ! Corporal, give me that good gallant 

grey"— 
A moment, and then we were speeding away — 
Speeding away through the low, creeping light, 
Through the shade and the shadow, the blare 

and the blight 
Of the heat wave that clung to the breath of the 

night — 
Speeding away through the leg-wearying sand. 
Through the hoof-stinging flint of that alkali land 
With steel in our hearts and steel in our hand, 
250 



from Tennessee 

Galloping, galloping, galloping on — 
Thirty miles in the moonlight, galloping on. 

Not a word : as we rushed adown a long slope 
We bounded as free as the wild antelope. 
A coyote howls out from a neighboring hill, 
An owl hoots an answer, and then all is still. 
A rise in the range of our trail to the right 
And our cloud-propping goal flashes bold on our 

sight. 
** Thank God!" cries the Captain, '* their 

powers now fail. 
They have come to a trot — see the tracks in the 

trail !" 
And crazed with the grief that a father can feel 
He sends the steel home with a desperate heel. 
But I mark the short breaths of the grey as he 

goes, 
And his staggering gait as the dust upward 'rose. 
*'Draw your rein!'' to the Captain I shouted 

aloud ; 
** Your horse will choke down in this dust-stifling 

cloud. 
We have come many miles without water or rest — 
Draw rein just a moment — ' ' Down on his breast. 
With a sickening wheeze from his steam-heaving 

chest, 
He staggers — reels — heaves — and over he sinks. 
While the blood bubbles up from its carmined 

brinks. 

251 



Songs and Stories 

** Go on, Sergeant — on !" as he leaps to be free — 
** My child and her life rest with old Tennessee V* 
Galloping, galloping, galloping on — 
Alone in the moonlight, galloping on. 

For the first time now I felt nervous with dread ; 
Even Tennessee galloped less bravely ahead. 
Each bush seemed an Indian as big as a horse, 
Each shadow the ghost of another, across 
Our path slipping on in the dim, misty light 
To warn those ahead to be ready for fight. 
I spoke to brave Tennessee, stroked his wet crest. 
Talked of the home where we both used to rest — 
The meadows, where shone the calm, blue sky 

above. 
And the blue grass below in the land of our love — 
Of the old mare, perchance nodding now in her 

stall. 
And the father and mother — ah ! dearest of all. 
And I smile even now as I think of the song 
I sang out aloud as we staggered along ; 
And Tennessee braced himself up at the sound, 
For I felt his feet strike a bit steadier the ground. 
And it nerved even me — not a moment too soon, 
For there, standing there in the light of the moon. 
Almost in our pathway — how quickly it rose ! 
Then, — the twang of a bow under Tennessee's 

nose, 
Just as the horse on his haunches arose, 
And the deadly barbed arrow, intended for me, 
252 



from Tennessee 

With a rattlesnake hiss struck brave Tennessee 
Just under the throat, near the big throbbing vein, 
And came out above, in his sweat-covered mane. 
But he drew not another, for quick through his 

head 
My Colt sent a cone of government lead — 
And Uncle Sam's darling in the moonlight lay 

dead ! 
A moment's convulsion — on his knees sank my 

roan — 
Down ! and my heart sank, too, with his groan. 
But, struggling, he 'rose with the staggering pain 
As I spoke, and came to his senses again, 
Then plunged — reeled — plunged — Great God, 

would he fall 
With that flint in his throat ? In vain was my 

call ! 
How I pitied him, struggling, the will 'gainst the 

flesh! 
But I thought of the Lily and urged him afresh. 
And I plunged both my spurs in his death-shaking 

sides. 
He never had felt them before in his rides. 
For he bounded away with the bit in his teeth 
And the frenzy of death in his hoof-beats beneath. 
And he ran as if knowing his last race was run — • 
Was there ever a grander one under the sun ! 

A spurt on the trail, a maiden's low cry. 
Half-strangled — and then we were thundering by. 
253 



Songs and Stories 

Useless my pistol ! I threw it away ; 
Too close was the Lily — too deadly the fray ! 
A spring and a grapple ! A hand to hand strife — 
A blow — here's the scar from his murderous 

knife — 
? The next and my grandfather's King Mountain* 

made 
A path through his heart to his left shoulder blade. 

A maid on the sand — and she held in her lap 
Not my head — but that of a far nobler chap. 
A maid on the sand — and her tears fall free 
On the quivering muzzle of brave Tennessee, 
While his poor, pleading eyes seemed to linger 

above 
To tell her he galloped that gallop for love. 

That's all ! When I waked from a two hours' 

swoon 
(Where I dreamed a sweet Lily grew by a lagoon 
And kissed me and bound with her leaflets my 

wound) 
The Captain was there with fifty picked men. 
And they swore such a ride they would ne'er see 

again ! 
And the Captain broke down, and the Lily and 

me. 
And we all went to camp — all but old Tennessee. 

* A short, heavy knife made from the sword his grand- 
sire used at the battle of King's Mountain. The writer 
has often seen it. 

254 



from Tennessee 

He sleeps by the shore 

Where swift waters roar, 
The mountain his monument 
Till time is no more, 
And beneath — this is carved where a boulder 
hangs o'er : 

HERE LIES TENNESSEE, 

of the 

SEVENTH CAVALRY. 

the 

same was a horse, 

yet 

HE GALLOPED ACROSS 

The Plain 

To Fame. 

Of Three, He Alone 

had 

The Blood and the Bone 

TO RUN 

Fifty Miles to the Yellowstone. 

To Save a Life He Gave His Own. 

And now I have told you the story, lad, 

Except — well, I soon came home. 
For I had no mount that was any account 

And I had no heart to roam. 
But after a while I did go back and 
I brought her home with me — 
The Lily of Fort Custer — and she blooms in Ten- 
nessee. 

255 



Songs and Stories 



THE FLAG OF GREEN'S BRIGADE. 
(Louisiana Building, World's Fair Grounds.) 

OWHEN I stood before the tatter'd flag of 
, Green's brigade, 
My heart beat martial music for the thoughts my 

spirit made. 
I saw the old-time flint-locks flash their deadly 

disks of flame, 
I cheered the old-time ragged lines that marched 

in Freedom's name, 
I wept o'er old-time gaping wounds in manly 

breasts displayed, 
And dying eyes that last looked on the flag of 

Green's brigade. 

O, when I stood before the faded flag of Green's 
brigade, 

I saw the blood of heroes in its every tint and 
shade. 

'Neath Saratoga's steel-cold stars it led our charg- 
ing line 

And hurled back Freedom's challenge from the 
guns of Brandywine, 

At Germantown and Kettle Creek and Camden's 
leaden rain — 

256 



from Tennessee 

Till Yorktown found it torn and shorn but still 

without a stain ! 
'Twas this that led the tide that swept our craft 

from out the gloom 
And hung, like Hope's bright banner, o'er the 

portals of the tomb ; 
And, flaming like a flambeau held in Victory's 

mailed hand, 
It blazed the way for brightest day throughout 

the struggling land. 
Around it flocked the Southron while the bright 

beams of his blade 
Gleamed out like stars of midnight 'round the 

flag of Green's brigade. 

O, as I stand before the faded flag of Green's 
brigade, 

Methinks I hear the thunder of the Future's can- 
nonade ! 

Methinks our lines are marching— marching to 
the same old call — 

And some are blue and some are gray — the old 
flag over all. 

And Gettysburg and Bull Run now have met, 
both undismayed, 

To fight their country's battles 'round the flag of 
Green's brigade. 



17 257 



Songs and Stories 



BY THE LITTLE BIG-HORN. 

(A Montana paper is authority for the state- 
ment that a half-breed Sioux, who had served 
as scout for Gen. Custer, was living in that State 
a few years ago, and claimed to be the only sur- 
vivor of Custer's last fight. In the confusion 
this half-breed mingled with the Sioux and escaped 
the massacre by reason of close tribal resem- 
blance. He relates how eight horsemen of the 
Seventh Regiment cut through the Sioux and 
gained the foot-hills beyond, where they could 
easily have joined Reno and escaped, had they 
not looked down and seen the desperate strait in 
which their general was placed. To the aston- 
ishment of all, they shot their own horses, and, 
forming into line, marched back to die with 
Custer.) 

DOWN to their death in the valley of silence, 
Down where the Sioux's treach'rous ranks 
lay at bay, 
Down till the yellow waves turned into crimson 

The old Seventh rode on that ill-fated day. 
*' Forward, the Seventh! Charge through the 
Sioux center !" 

258 



from Tennessee 

'Twas Custer who said it — he rode on the 
right— 
His long yellow hair was the banner they fol- 
lowed 
And he sat his black horse like the Centaur of 
fight ! 

Down to their death in that somber-hued valley, 
They rode through the Sioux with carbine and 
Colt— 
The reins in their teeth and the glint of their 
sabers 
Making the flash for their lead thunderbolt. 
** Forward, the Seventh — guide right ! To the 
center !" 
'Twas Custer who said it, as onward he sped. 
Spurring his steed where the eagle's grey feathers 
Rose o'er the crest of the billows of red. 

Out from that valley, that valley of carnage. 
Eight horsemen have cut through the ranks of 
the foe ; 
They gain the bold heights and safely look down- 
ward, 
Down on the scene of this new Alamo. 
For there, his dead steed as a breastwork before 
him. 
With the glory of battle ablaze in his eye. 
Answering it back in flash of his pistols. 

Our prince of the saddle has stopped there — 
to die ! 

259 



Songs and Stories 

Again and again roll the billows of fury 

To be shattered again as the wave on the rock ; 
Again and again melts the line of the Seventh 

Beneath the Sioux bullet and Wahpeton shock. 
But see ! from the heights where their good 
steeds have clambered, 
Out-footing Sioux ponies in fleet-winged flight, 
The eight have dismounted — one glance tells the 
story — 
They shoulder their rifles and dress to the 
right. 

They hear the wild whoop of the blood-mad- 
dened savage, 
They see their brave comrades go down in the 
brunt. 
They hear through the din the calm voice of 
brave Custer — 
A breastwork of dead he has made in his 
front ! 
"Attention, squad!'' 'twas the sergeant who 
said it, 
" Fours right into line — our duty lies back !" 
Then quick from his belt came a blue-gleaming 
barrel. 
And the steed that had saved him lay dead in 
its track ! 

Back to their death in that valley of slaughter 
Eight horsemen march down on the hosts of 
the Sioux, 

260 



. from Tennessee 

Not a trumpet gave note — not the gleam of a 
banner — 
'Tis only a duty they march down to do. 
** Forward, squad !'* said the sergeant immortal — 
''Charge straight for the center — to Custer 
once more," 
And Time, in his pitiless flight, for a moment 
Looked down on a sight he had ne'er seen 
before. 

Up in that valley, that sweetly green valley, 

O, raise them a monument proudly in air, 
Telling the story as ages grow hoary 

What American soldiers for duty will dare. 
High on the shaft in the glint of the sunlight 

Let Custer's proud figure, heroic, stand high, 
And grouped just beneath, with immortelle 
wreath. 

The eight nameless horsemen who never 



shall die. 



^ ^ ^ 



THOROUGHBREDS. 

(An incident of the fight around Atlanta.) 

STRAIGHT at the breastworks, flanked with 
fire. 
Where the angry rifles spat their ire. 
And the reeling cannon rocked with flame, 
Swift as his namesake. Bullet came. 
Young was his rider, fifteen and two, 
261 



Songs and Stories 

And yet the battles that he'd been through 
Were fifteen and ten — a braver lad 
Old Fighting Forrest never had ! 

And as he rode down the rifle-d wind 

His brown curls bannered the breeze behind. 

**0, they are mother's," he had laughed and 

said 
When the men nicknamed him ** Trundle Bed" 
Two years before— when he first ran away 
From mother and school to don the gray. 
*' But that's all right " — with a toss of his head — 
" For Bullet is grown — and he's thoroughbred !" 

But that was before the Shiloh fight 
Where he led the charge 'gainst Prentiss' right. 
And as he came through the smoke and flame 
Old Forrest himself was heard to exclaim : 
*' Just look at Bullet and Trundle Bed ! 
I tell you, boys, they're both thoroughbred !" 
And from that day on it became a law, 
*' Follow Bullet and you'll go to war 1" 
To-day he rode less erect, I ween. 
For he'd had a battle with General Gangrene 
In the hospital tent — (a ball in his chest 
For riding too far over Kenesaw's crest). 
But even while tossing with fever and pain 
He had caught a whiff of battle again. 
Just smelt it afloat in the sulphurous air. 
And he knew, somehow, that Forrest was there 
262 



from Tennessee 

And hard pressed, too — so, 'twixt crutches and 

crawl, 
That night he slipped out to Bullet's stall. 
A whinnying welcome — a kiss on his ear, 
**I'm alive yet. Bullet— Trundle Bed's here V* 
A pattering gallop at first daylight. 
The boom of a gun on Johnston's right — 
** That's Cleburne, Bullet ! What a charming 

fight!" 

Straight at the sheeted and leaden rain 
He rode — Alas ! not back again ! 
For the hot fire scorched the curls of brown, 
And grapeshot mowed their owner down. 
And the heart that beat for mother and home 
Was dumb where it wept and wet the loam, 
And dim in the dust the blue eyes fine — 
But Bullet charged over the Yankee line. 

Charged over the line ! — then he missed the 

touch 
Of the rider that always had loved him much, 
And he wheeled as the gray lines rose and fell 
'Neath fire like fire from the pits of hell. 
And he rushed again on a backward track 
When he saw the Texas brigade fall back. 
But whose was the form that caught his eye 
With boots to the guns and face to the sky ? 
And whose was the voice ? — ** Tell mother good- 
bye !" 

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Songs and Stories 

And why were the curls red ? His were brown — 
He stopped as if a shot had brought him down ! 

Hell answered hell in the cannon's roar, 
And steel cursed steel — yet he stood before 
The form he loved ; — for he knew the eyes 
Though their June had changed to December 

skies. 
Hell answered hell in the cannon's roar, 
And steel cursed steel — yet he whinnied o'er 
The form he loved, while the grapeshot tore ! 
And still he stood o'er the curly head — 
For Bullet, you know, was thoroughbred — 
Till a solid shot plowed a cruel rent, — 
A last loving whinny — and Bullet was spent ! 

The burying squad in blue next day 
Stopped to a man as they wiped away 
A tear — for there all calm 'mid the wreck 
Was Trundle Bed pillowed on Bullet's neck ! 

O Union great, O Union strong, 
The South, you say, was in the wrong. 
And yet, some day, when the foe shall come, 
Some day at the beat of an insolent drum. 
When the glorious Stars and Stripes unfurl'd 
Shall stand for Home in Freedom's world, 
The first their blood in the cause to shed 
Will be — the sons of the thoroughbred ! 



264 



from Tennessee 



''WEARING THE GRAY." 

(A Memorial Day Poem for the Confederacy.) 

WEARING the gray, wearing the gray, 
Battling alone in the world of to-day, 
Fighting for bread in the battle of life, 
With courage as grand as they rode to the strife. 
Marching to beat of Toil's merciless drum, 
Longing for comrades who never shall come. 
Comrades who sleep where they fell in the fray — 
Dead — but immortal in jackets of gray. 

Wearing the gray in the silvery hair, 
Mortality's banner that Time planted there ! 
Wearing a gray, while the tears upward start, 
A gray that is buried down deep in the heart. 

Wearing the gray, wearing the gray. 
The old line marches in mem'ry to-day — 
The old drums beat and the old flags wave — 
How the dead gray-jackets spring up from the 

grave ! 
They rush on with Pickett where young gods 

would yield. 

They sweep with Forrest the shell-harrowed field. 

They laugh at the bolts from the batteries hurled, 

Yet weep around Lee when the last flag is furled. 

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Songs and Stories 

Wearing the gray o'er the temples of white, 
Time's banner of truce for the end of the 

fight. 
Wearing a gray that was worn long ago, 
With their face to the front and their front 

to the foe. 

Wearing the gray, wearing the gray, 

Longing to bivouac over the way, 

To rest o'er the river in the shade of the trees, 

And furl the old flag to eternity's breeze. 

To camp by the stream on that evergreen shore. 

And meet with the boys who have gone on before. 

To stand at inspection 'mid pillars of light, 

While God turns the gray into robings of white. 

Wearing the gray o'er the foreheads of 

snow — 
The drum-beat is quick, but the paces are 

slow- — 
Wearing a gray for the land of the blest. 
When life's fight is o'er and the rebel shall 

rest. 

Wearing the gray, wearing the gray. 
Almost in the valley, almost in the spray, 
Waiting for taps when the light shall go out, 
Yet hoping to wake with a reveille shout ! 
Leaving to Heaven the Right and the Wrong, 
Praying for strength in the old battle song — 
266 



from Tennessee 

Praying for strength in the last ditch to stay, 
When death turns his guns on the old head of gray. 

Wearing the gray in the paleness of death, 
For the angel has swept with a garnering 

breath ! 
Wearing a gray when he wakes in the morn — 
The old rebel jacket our dead boy had on ! 



^ ^ ^ 



THE BELLS OF ATLANTA. 

(An Incident of the Civil War.) 

AUTUMN sunset on Atlanta painting banners 
red of Mars — 

Twinkling campfires in the distance like ten 
thousand evening stars. 

For the foe had come upon her in the glory of his 
might. 

And his siege guns, like grim war dogs, waited 
for the morrow's fight. 

Down the valley in the moonlight lay the Gate- 
way of the South, 

Fruitful as a summer grain field when the east 
wind breaks the drought — 

Proud as harem queen, and heedless — sleeping 
'neath the cannon's mouth. 
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Songs and Stories 

Sabbath sunrise on Atlanta, issuing in the steel- 
gray morn, 
Turning dark hills into silver as the crystal light 

is born ; 
Wakes the beaming sky in beauty, sleeps the 

somber earth in shade — 
Only reveille and roll-call mock the peace that 

God has made ! 
And the siege guns ceased their dreaming — 

ceased their dreaming of the fray. 
Turned their horrid fronts to eastward, where the 

quiet city lay — 
For the word had come from masters they must 

open on their prey ! 



Far away through blue-domed morning rose the 

city's thread-like spires, 
Lifting up the southern banner to her heaven- 
kindling fires ; 
And the foemen, seeing, wondered — knew they 

fought no battle wraith — 
For the fmger of her worship was the flag-staff of 

her faith ! 
Ay, they knew that in that banner, fluttering 

there without a flaw. 
Slept the nerve of Chickamauga and the heart 

of Kenesaw — 
Slumbered southern hope and glory, her religion 

and her law. 

268 



from Tennessee 

'* Aim for yonder cursed banner flouting from that 

tallest spire ; 
Open with the hundred-pounders — let the bat- 
teries follow fire !" 
Thus spake Sherman, and his army, marshaled 

in the hilltop sun, 
Waited there in painful silence for the music of 

that gun. 
And those siege guns, huge, black-muzzled, show 

their demon, ghoulish lips. 
As they raise their necks to measure where the 

blue horizon dips — 
Where to spring across the valley when their 

leash the keeper slips. 



In a moment on the city there would rain a fire 

of hell ; 
Solid shot would mingle thunder with the shriek 

of shrapnel shell ! 
Like an eagle from his eyrie falling on the flock 

below, 
Death would scream across the valley lighted 

by the fuse's glow. 
Then the sergeant grasps the lanyard, while 

erect the gunners stand, 
As they wait in dumb obedience for the Colonel's 

stern command — 
For the word unloosing thunder on this heaven- 
basking land. 

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Songs and Stories 

Suddenly, far down the valley, came a faint yet 

tuneful sound. 
Floating from the tallest steeple, spreading like 

God's halo 'round. 
And the sergeant dropped the lanyard as that 

sweet wave rose and fell, 
And the bristling ranks saluted — for they heard 

their own church bell : 

Softly, sweetly, rising, falling, 
Hark ! 'tis thus the p^an ran — 

Gently chiding, calmly calling: 

'' Peace on earth, good will to man !** 

Heralding to pale blue morning 
Till the echoing hilltops start — 

Shell and shot and cannon scorning : 
'' Love thy God with all thy heart !" 

Out it pours, full heaven-throated, 
Caring naught for glory's pelf, 

Chiming, as it upward floated : 
** Love thy neighbor as thyself 1" 

God's own skylark of His spirit ! — sweeter than 

the songs of war. 
Grander than the bass of battle when the cannon 

boom afar — 
Mightier than the thunder-organs on the decks at 

Trafalgar I 

270 



from Tennessee 

And the soldier as he listened saw New England*s 

hilltops rise — 
Saw the plains of Indiana stretch beneath his 

misty eyes. 
Vanished now the flags of battle, gone were 

armed host and gun, 
And his own sweet native village lay before him 

in the sun. 
It is Sabbath, and the church bells call him now 

to worship God ; 
Sabbath there — yet here he standeth, ready with 

the chastening rod. 
Till a brother's blood shall mingle with his own, 

his southern sod. 



'Tis enough — the flags are lowered and the blue- 
steel guns they stack — 

God has broken ranks where cannon never yet 
has turned them back. 

All day long the rebel banner, flirting while the 
winds caressed. 

Mocked the guns that, parked to westward, 
crowned the hilltop's bristling crest. 

All day long the Sabbath sunlight o'er the peace- 
ful city spread. 

Blending blue and gray battalions in the soft 
clouds overhead — 

And the siege guns watched and wondered why 
their keepers all had fled ! 
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Songs and Stories 

Ring, ye church bells of Atlanta ! Ring till sin 
and hate shall cease ! 

Ring, till nations hear thy p^ans, and the founts 
of love release, 

And the notes of drums are drowned in thy mel- 
odies of peace. 

^ ^ ^ 

THE TENNESSEEAN TO THE FLAG. 

(A Poem Read at the Opening of the United States 
Arsenal at Columbia, Tenn.) 

WE followed you first in the days of old, 
For you stood for the rights of men, 
And our pioneer soldiers followed your fold — 

For they fought for the Union then ; 
They held you aloft in the fiery flame, 
'Mid the shriek of the British shell, 
And planted you on the heights of fame — 
That flag they loved so well ! 

We followed you first in the days of old, 

When our Jackson went to the fray. 
And the Tennessee soldiers lay in the cold 

Of that long, dread winter day. 
They lay in the cold, but you floated o'er. 

And the silence was deep as the grave 
Till their long-barreled rifles spoke with a roar 

For the flag they fought to save. 

?72 



from Tennessee 

We followed you first in the days of old, 

When our Polk roused the Mexican ire, 
And we gathered an empire into the fold 

To warm it with Liberty's fire. 
*Twas our own gallant Campbell who led the 
band, 

The first o'er the Mexican height. 
And yon flag of our Union went in his hand 

Through the red-hot fire of the fight. 

We've followed you oft in the days of old — 

And we'll follow you oft again ! 
Shall the pulse of the son grow sluggish and cold 

Where the sire's blood flowed like the rain ? 
Shall the deeds of the past, by Error bewail'd, 

Be lost in passion's dark flow, 
And the flag of our country by brothers be trailed 

When it never has trailed to the foe ? 

No ! We'll follow you now, proud flag of the free, 

Should the foe with his banners e'er come — 
No need for a bugle to call us to thee. 

Our hearts make the beat of our drum 1 
With the spirit of Jackson to guide from above. 

And the mem'ry of Crockett to aid us. 
We'll rally once more to the banner we love — 

The banner our forefathers made us ! 

Then wave, proud flag of our Union, 
Wave and unroll your bright bars ; 
For never was sunshine brighter, 
i8 273 



Songs and Stories 

And never the sweet air lighter 
Than that now circling your stars. 

Then float, proud flag of our Union, 
Float o'er this land of the free ; 
For ne'er was love any truer, 
And ne'er was sentiment purer 
Than the love of our people for thee. 



^ ^ ^ 

TENNESSEE. 
(A Centennial Poem — 1897.) 

SUN-SHIMMER'D fields of dreaming green, 
A sky blue-domed in azure sheen, 
And hill on hill dipped deep between. 
And with soft sighs the breezes rise 
To waft cloud-kisses to the skies. 

Nature smiled, and dimpled back 
The Middle Basin in her track. 
She laughed, and ling'ring on its crest 
Her echo rolled from out the west. 
She frowned, and 'round her thoughtful brow, 
'Rose our bold peaks of liberty. 
'Rose, and wedded with the sky — 
For Liberty will wed no less 
Than this sky-child of loveliness. 
With eyes of stars and sunset tress. 
274 



from Tennessee 

And one — King's Mountain peak in name- 
Has linked his wedding day to fame — 
For scorning Self, and hoyden Mirth, 
And flesh-pot Pride, and cringing Earth, 
He kissed his bride-queen of the sky 
And gave to Independence birth. 

God saw the picture, that 'twas good, 
And so on heaven's heights He stood 
And through the bars of throbbing stars 
Sent men whose souls were souls of Mars. 

God saw the picture, that 'twas fair. 
And so, from out of heaven's air. 
Through dreamy haze of nebulous ways- 
(Souled in the sweetness of their lays 
And crowned in the halo of their blaze) 
Sent maids to wed these men of Mars. 

And over all, from Morning's loom, 
He cast a veil of blue and bloom. 
As ancient kings a cloth of gold 
Threw o'er the master works of old. 

When star weds star, the stars are born, 
And after star-birth comes the morn, 
The morn of Men and Principle. 
And so men came of giant frame — 
Live-oaks in the field of Fame — 
Monarchs in God's forestry. 
275 



Songs and Stories 

And one came as the Hickory,* with steel-knit, 

stubborn form, 
The gatherer of strength that's won by wrest- 
ling with the storm. 
The main-mast of that sturdy ship that first flung 

to the world 
The heaven-reflected glory of the Stars and 

Stripes unfurled. 
He came and smote, and from the throat of guns 

of Tennessee, 
He echoed back the thunder-note of infant 

Liberty. 
And one grew as the rough. Red Oak,f from out 

the deep, rich soil — 
The strength of ages garnered in the nobleness 

of toil— 
He stood and died for Liberty, and far across 

the sea 
Tossed back the new world's answer to a new 

Thermopylae. 
And one was like the WillowJ in his grace of 

heart and mind, 
And holds the list'ning ear of fame as the harp- 
string holds the wind. 
And one was like the stately Pine,§ his name an 

evergreen 
Held in the prow-beak of each ship that sails the 

seas between. 

* Jackson. t Crockett. 

t Haskell. I Matt F. Maury. 

276 



from Tennessee 

And one came as the Cedar,* and reared his 

lofty crest 
To gather 'neath its ample boughs an empire 

from the west. 
And thousands stood as Cypresses,! when the 

axe of Fate was nigh. 
And in their moss of tatter'd gray with proud 

heads in the sky, 
Fell in the fadeless forest of Immortality. 

O, children of such Deeds as these, 
As rivers flow to make the seas, 
Great spirits make great destinies. 
O, sons of sires, these deeds adorn ; 
As true as sunlight unto morn 
Is deed that lives, to deed unborn. 
O, maids of mothers, know ye then, 
As purest stream from deepest glen. 
Great mothers only rear great men. 
Hark, now, from out his leafy throne. 
What sings our mock-bird Mendelssohn : 

Tennessee, Tennessee, 

All our song goes out to thee. 

From our eyries where the eagles breed the spirit 

of the free 
To the cataract that catches up the lay of liberty ; 
From our vestal hills uplifting emerald offerings to 

the sky, 

* James K. Polk. f Confederate soldiers. 

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Songs and Stories 

To the Basin in whose bosom heaven's garnered 

glories lie. 
Singing, singing, singing, as the wind sings to 

the sea, 
Clinging, clinging, clinging, as the vine clings to 
the tree, 

Songs of hope and songs of sadness, 
Songs of home and songs of gladness, 
Songs of thee. 

Tennessee, Tennessee, 
All our love goes out to thee. 
From our mountains where the marble dreams of 

beauty yet to be. 
To the mighty marching river bearing bounty to 

the sea ; 
From our Eastland where the clover blossom 

mocks the purple morn. 
To the West where cotton banners mimic sunset 

'mid the corn. 
Giving, giving, giving, as the blossom gives 

the bee, 
Living, living, living, as should ever live the free, 
Love of truth and love of beauty, 
Love of God and love of duty, 
Love of thee. 



278 



from Tennessee 



TO A WILD ROSE ON AN INDIAN GRAVE. 

IN the pasture where the grasses are the first to 
herald spring, 
And the meadow lark flits upward on his para- 

chutal wing, 
Where the wild vines weave their netting and the 

wild winds wander free. 
Thou art blooming in thy beauty now, sweet rose 
of Cherokee. 

All around thee there is freedom, part and parcel 
of thy life, 

Untutored is thy every grace with native sweet- 
ness rife. 

The spirit of the maiden whom the Choctaw 
chieftain stole* — 

Thou sprangest from her lonely grave, the rose- 
bud of her soul. 

Didst thou weave those golden leaflets, 'mid the 
centuries long gone by, 

* The legend of the Cherokee Rose is, that a Cherokee 
maiden, being stolen by a neighboring chief, died, longing 
to go back to her tribe. A rose was afterwards found 
blooming on her grave, and by the Indians named in her 
honor. 

279 



Songs and Stories 

In the loom of Indian summer with the shuttles 
of the sky ? 

And that rare and dainty perfume, circling lam- 
bent of thy birth ? — 

'Tis the infant breath of nature in the May-day 
of the earth. 

In those rows of yellow pistils, platoon-formed, 
with spears of stars, 

Didst thou pilfer from the lark's breast while he 
sang his sweetest bars ? 

And that blush of faintest crimson, tingeing soft 
thy petal's peak ? 

'Tis the red bird's mirrored plumage in the dew- 
drop on thy cheek. 

In those drooping, twining branches, bending low 
in jeweled bloom. 

Thou but weavest wreaths of beauty for the 
sleep of Beauty's tomb, 

And that snowy, clust'ring garland springing up- 
ward and above — 

*Tis the risen soul of virtue in the robes of 
virtue's love. 

Ah ! 'tis many circling seasons since thou first 

bloomed o'er the mound. 
Where the Indian maiden slumbered and the wild 

fawn wander'd round ; 
Since thou heardst the Spanish bugle, saw De 

Soto's steel-clad lines 
280 



from Tennessee 

As they trampled in their armor o'er thy timid, 
clinging vines. 

But through all those changing seasons thou hast 

reared thy modest head — 
Nature's shaft of living marble o'er the ashes of 

thy dead, 
Teaching all the world a lesson, older than the 

spangled sky — 
The good shall live forever, and the pure shall 

never die. 



THE BLUE-GRASS PLOT. 

OTHE blue-grass plot, the blue-grass plot, 
Where I played in the days long gone. 
Where the sweet grass grew 'neath the morn- 
ing dew 
And my life was a summer morn. 
The wild-rose spread o'er the porch over head 

And the swallows chirped sweet in their flight, 
But the birds are fled and the roses are dead 
And I'm far from the old home to-night. 

O, the blue-grass plot, in the old back lot, 

How I long to be there once more. 
With the colts in the shade the elm tree made. 

And my mother's form at the door. 
Where the brook brawled along, with its sweet 
glad song, 

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Songs and Stories 

And I played with my dog in his glee, 
'Till I thought all the gleam of the sun and the 
stream 
Was made for my dog and for me. 

O, the blue-grass plot, in the old back lot, 

How I long for your cool, quiet shade ! 
When the sun went down and the crescent crown 

Of the moon 'rose over the glade, 
How we romped on the sheen of your dewy green 

With a shout and a laughter wild, 
'Till called to our beds where three weary heads 

Soon slept the sweet sleep of the child. 

O, the blue-grass plot, the blue-grass plot, 

O, the mem'ry of childhood days ! 
'Tis bright as light in a cheerless night — 

'Tis sweet as the hearth-stone blaze. 
It comes with the thrill of a form that is still 

And a voice now hushed forever, 
To point our soul to that better goal — 

The Grass-plot over the River. 



282 



from Tennessee 



TO A SWEET PEA. 

(Which, climbing in a rose-bush, had escaped the first 
frost.) 

COME, little fairy, with your outstretched 
wings 
Uplifted, and your cloudless eyes a-dream. 
Why are you here where late the bluebird sings, 
And all your sisters drunk of Lethe's stream ? 
Dost fear to die ? 'Tis but a mental pain — 
And each must sleep if each would wake again 

Ah, child of rainbow and the setting sun. 
Flirting all summer where the poppies grow, 

Death came before your little task was done ? 
(He has that way, as we poor mortals 
know !) — 

Then why seek shelter 'neath the rose's breast ? 

For each must sleep if each have perfect rest. 

Afraid to go clad in that gaudy gown ? 

Poor little dancing spirit of wild joy ! 
God made thee such ; nor will He ever frown 

On any work of His, tho' sad th' alloy. 
Go as thou art, if honest be thy aim — 
For God made honor everywhere the same. 
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Songs and Stories 

Nor fear to go ! On some far twinkling star 
There is a home for butterflies like thee — 

As sterner worlds for sterner spirits are, 
So fairer worlds for sweeter beings be. 

Good-by ! Some day I'll catch thy faint per- 
fume, 

And know it bloweth from immortal bloom. 



^ ^ ^ 

THE HILLS. 

1KNOW not why I love the cloud-lined hills, 
Stretching away so faint in trembling rills 
Of smoke-blue ether. Far away, they seem 
Like fixed billows of the ocean — like the dream 
Of the sea, when in his mad and wild unrest 
He longs to sleep upon his earth-bride's breast. 
Transfixed, his waves — in blue and brown they 

stand. 
The image of the ocean on the land. 
The trees that tower in the twilight far 
Are masts of bannered ships with naked spar. 
While o'er the crest, like light-house lamp, shines 

out the evening star. 

And yet a-near, I know not why to me 
They seem to speak of friendship and the glee 
Of youth time. Orchards, purpling 'mid Octo- 
ber days, 

284 



from Tennessee 

And grapes that climb to kiss the sun's last rays. 

Breezes that turn the sunflower's saffron sail 

And billows the rip'ning grain where calls the 
quail. 

Pools that gleam to stud the moss-grown front of 
rocks, 

And cooling forest depths where rest the flocks. 

The hills ! The hills ! Towering above the val- 
ley's sordid clod, 

Lifting the earth's dead level half-way up to God, 

Yet holding all in sweet communion with the 
mother sod. 

Yon mountain, capped with its eternal snow, 
Scorning all sweetness — e'en soft clouds below — 
It hath no charm for me. There's no love there. 
No voice of birds, nor fruit-perfumed air, 
Nor low, soft song from bivouacked tents of 

hay — 
The harvest reapers' song at close of day. 
Alone it stands, symbol of dearth and might 
Of naked power and grandeur's royal right 
To look down on the tenderer things of earth 
And scorn the sunshine love that gave them birth. 
And blight, as with a shroud of frost, their unas- 
suming mirth. 

So may my life be — like the hills. Not high 
My hopes and plans, but midway 'twixt the sky 
And stagnant land. So may my friends be, 
Not like mountains towering o'er the sea, 
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Songs and Stories 

Wrapt in the cold splendor of a world apart — 
With granite thoughts and barren boulder heart — 
But high enough to tempt my gaze above 
And low enough to catch the sunshine of my love. 
So may my death be, like the hill, sun-riven — 
Holding its last sweet beam from earth to catch 
the first from heaven. 

^ ^ ^ 
TO A MOCKING-BIRD IN THE PINE-TOP. 



B 



IRD of the South — sweet songster ! 

Brighter than the evening star 

That beams above thy perch afar 

Thy song pours out, its every bar 

Music'd with melody. 
Singing in the pine-top green. 
Of all the feathered tribe the queen — 
A rising, falling, rippling sheen 

Of flowing harmony. 

Lute of the South — our Southland ! 
Pouring from thine em'rald throne 
On the pine tree's topmost cone 
Notes by mortals never known, 

Of sweet simplicity. 
What sunbeams made that twinkling trill ? 
What zephyr tuned that throat, until 
Its life and breath and spirit fill 

Thy soul of poesy ? 
286 



from Tennessee 

Mimic of the South — sly warbler, 

Hast thou caught the firefly's glow 
In the sparkle of thy flow, 
Or gathered from the sunset's bow 
Thy shafts of rhapsody ? 
Magnolia blossoms in the breeze — 
Art thou singing now of these 
While filling Heaven's purpling frieze 
With incense musical ? 

In that calm note, soft and low. 
Dost thou see the bayou's flow 
Bespangled with the stars that grow 

From water lilies ? 
Or up the green decked, wooded hill 
Where speeds the brook to water mill, 
Is that jingling note its trill 

Down ravine rushing ? 

Deeper, sweeter flows the stream 

All merry mad with glide and gleam 
Until the very woodlands seem 

To reel with euphony. 
Softly sweet, 'neath paling dome. 
Thou singest now of that true home, 
Where we shall weep no more, nor roam, 
But rest forever. 

Listening to the revery note 

From thy moonlit perch, there float 
Tales of other days remote, 
Mem'ries of chivalry. 
287 



Songs and Stories 

Tales that tell of times a-gone — 
The cotton's banner 'mid the corn — 
Of Charity that's ever born 
'Mid peace and plenty. 

Changing now to deeper tone 

Comes a war-note from thy throne, 
And sweetness for a season's flown 

For martial measures. 
Short and quick with bugle thrill 
The war-drum echoes in thy trill — 
The fife's fierce scream and trumpet fill 

Thy clarion melody. 

Silently — a march in Saul — 

Thou changest now to fun'ral pall ; 
Thou mournest now for those who fall 

Wearing the gray. 
Ay, weep ; for in the rush of wrong 
That followed with the alien throng, 
Thy people needed every song 

Thy heart could give. 

Hark ! another note we hear, 

'Tis the plowboy's whistle clear, 
As morning finds him with his gear, 

To yoke prosperity. 
Then, as up the sunshine gleams 
Our night of dread melts into dreams 
Of harvest fields and peaceful streams 
And barns of plenty. 
288 



from Tennessee 

Bird of the South — dear songster, 
Sing in the pine-top, ever sing. 
Cause all the southern air to ring, 
Music and evergreens o'er us fling 

And teach the religion of harmony. 
Sing in the pine-top, in that tree. 
The emblem of eternity — 
Sing till thy people, hearing thee, 

Shall live for immortality. 

^ '%, ^ 

A HARVEST SONG. 

OTHE mellow days of autumn 
, How I love to see them come, 
When the harvest army marches 
To the bittern's noisy drum. 

Every day is full of sweetness, every night is full 

of song — 
And the air is full of ripeness as the breezes 

sweep along. 
The mocking-bird, awakened by the flood of 

soothing light. 
Weaves a golden thread of music in the silver 

woof of night. 
While the rustling of a thousand flashing blades 

amid the corn. 
Like an army in the moonlight waits the reaper 

of the morn. 

19 289 



Songs and Stories 

O, the mellow days of autumn 
How I love to see them come, 

When, like an Indian princess 
Stands the maple, and the gum. 

All the earth is full of beauty, all the sky in 

azure fold. 
And the sunshine in its softness melts in dreamy 

waves of gold. 
The wild goose flying southward sounds his 

startled, clarion note. 
And the trumpet of the harvest march is in his 

echoing throat. 
While the flashing of a thousand cotton banners* 

'mid the corn, 
Like our skies, are red at evening but are silver 

in the morn. 

O, the mellow nights of autumn 
When the harvest moon is queen 

And the stars, like little reapers, 
Flash their tiny blades between. 

How they thrill me with a sweetness that is over- 
sweet to last, 
Like a glory of the present in a halo of the past. 
And they fill my heart with achings, with a sweet 
and tender pain, 

* The cotton bloom is white in the morning and red at 
evening. 

290 



from Tennessee 

Like the memory of a music that I ne'er shall 
hear again, 

And they fill my soul with longings and they fill 
my eyes with tears, 

Like a half-forgotten laughter in the long-for- 
gotten years. 

O, the mellow nights of autumn 
They are coming in a throng, 

And the harvest moon is with them 
And she sings the reaper's song. 

i^ '^ ^ 

THE OLD MEADOW SPRING. 

DOWN through the red-top blooming in the 
sun. 
On to the vine-covered trees, 
A barefoot boy through the path I'd run 
Like a swallow on the evening breeze. 
Quick to the big rocks cropping from the ground 

'Neath the trees where the sweet birds sing, 
With a leap and a bound I'd clamber down 
To drink at the meadow spring. 

O, the old meadow spring. 
To its moss-grown banks I'd cling, 
And with hat for a gourd I would quaff like a lord 
The cool, sparkling waters of the spring. 
291 



Songs and Stories 

Pouring from the rocks 'mid pebbles so white, 

And fringing the moss with pearl, 
Then speeding away in flashes of light 

To the pool with its eddying whirl. 
The wild mint wafts its odor from below 

On the sweep of the cool wind's wing, 
While the dark shining row of the blackberries 
grow 

On the brink of the meadow spring. 

O, the old meadow spring, 
Heaven's drink to man you bring, 
With the mint and the red of the purpling berry 
head 
All mirror'd in the depths of the spring. 

Stretched on the green grass, musing in the shade 

(To the drip — tinkle — drip, of the stream), 
I wonder if above such a spot was made 

For spirits in their heavenly dream. 
Watching the water-witch dancing about 

On the waves in her silvery ring. 
With a laugh and shout I'd put her to rout 

And plunge in the meadow spring. 

O, the old meadow spring. 
How I long once more to fling 
All my burdens aside in your silvery tide, 
And be a boy at the meadow spring. 



292 



from Tennessee 



SLEEPING. 

THEY are sleeping in the valley and on the 
glistening hills, 
And in the wooded nooks beside the winter's 

frozen rills. 
They slumber in their glory with the perfume on 

their breath, 
Their beauty and their brightness fled before the 

touch of death. 
Their bloom life is a memory — their sweetness 

but a dream 
Of summer days and shaded ways, and nights 

of starry gleam. 

They are sleeping in the valley, but they'll 

wake some joyous day, 
And Spring will stand before us in the bridal 

dress of May. 

They are sleeping in the valley, and they wait 

the Master's call — 
The rose-buds of our hearth-stone and the lilies 

of our hall. 
The violets that bloomed down in the hot-house 

of our heart, 

293 



. Songs and Stories 

The blue-bells of our cradles — how the quick 

tears upward start ! 
Their child-life is a memory — their visit but a 

dream 
Of childish ways and prattling days — how long 

ago they seem ! 

They are sleeping in the valley, but theyMl 

wake with joyous glee 
When the Master holds His dear hands out, 

and says : ** Come unto me." 

^ ^ ^ • 



TO THE SPIRIT OF MAY. 

AND now she stands upon enthroning hills 
And tosses wreaths of roses o'er the 
world, 
With banner'd bloom about her head unfurl'd 
And at her feet the music loving rills 
While winter's lingering stirrup-cup with frothy 
clouds she fills. 

The blue sky hangs above her like a veil. 
And, dropping low, fringed with divinest lace, 
It adds a softened shyness to that face. 
Which, like a maid in love, now pink, now pale. 
Needs but one look from earth to blush and tell 
its love-blown tale. 

294 



from Tennessee 

One slipper'd foot, flushed as the blossoming 
trees, 
Is thrust, half-naked, in the bloom and spray 
'Of orchards, where throughout the dreamy 
day 
The sunshine glints the wings of weaving bees, 
And all her children, music mad, do touch their 
thousand keys. 

And baby vines, awakening, have wound 
And twined a bracelet bloom about her arms, 
While 'round her waist, 'neath nestling charms, 
A russet belt, with beaded berries bound — 
The sun-maid's belt, dropped at her bath, which 
lover earth had found. 

And Music dreams and pines and sighs 
Within her eyes. And Poesy is there, 
Prophetic-faced, with sun-red, Sappho hair. 
And Hope above, star-vestal'd vigil keeps 
And throws a ray of ripeness o'er that face 
where unborn Harvest sleeps. 



295 



Songs and Stories 



CLOUDS. 

O CLOUDS, ye are ships in the infinite blue 
, Of the ocean of heaven — and ye sail, 
And ye sail 
To the harbor-gate, open to welcome you through 

In the west — to the harbor-gate, pale 
As a moon-ray reflected from the sea 
To your sail. 

O, clouds, ye are ships, and above you the dome 
Of an infinite heaven — and ye float. 
And ye float 
To the beacon-star burning to welcome you home 

To your rest. And lovers will gloat 
O'er eyes that are blue and wet as the waves 
Where you float. 

^ ^ ^ 

SUNSET ON THE TENNESSEE. 

THE valley rolls to the river 
And the river is tinged with fire, 
As the beams of the sunset quiver 
Like the strings of a golden lyre. 
And the hills, like sentinels olden, 
296 



from Tennessee 

In burnished steel they glow, 
While a kiss of the sunset, golden, 
They toss to the valley below. 

The valley rolls to the river, 

But the cheek of the river is wan, 
Like the lips of a maid, when the giver 

Of the kiss in the twilight is gone. 
But the sentinel hills are bolder ; 

Like giants in gloom they grow. 
And with forest of guns at the shoulder, 

They guard the valley below. 

^ ^ ^ 

MORNING. 

TIP-TOE on morning star, 'mid purpling light. 
The day queen throws her kisses to the 
world, 
Then stands abashed a moment, as in plight 
From maiden shyness, while around is furl'd 
The fleecy lace of clouds, with skirts of blue 
Trailing adown to hills of azure hue. 

A sudden flirting of a dew-wet wing. 

As out from leafy bush or hedge-thatched lair 
The throbbing throats at once begin to sing 
And distant pipes fall on the sweet, cool air. 
The cattle rise from shaded beds along. 
And add their cow-bell cymbals to the song. 
297 



Songs and Stories 

Deep spreads the blush around Aurora's cheeks, 

Purpling the bloom of ripen'd lips — and then 
Closer she draws her drapery as she seeks 
To hide her beauty from the eyes of men. 
And lo ! the jealous sun leaps up to fold 
Her melting glory in his arms of gold. 



^ ^ ^ 

UNDER THE PINES. 

UNDER the pines with her hair in a tangle, 
The skies in her eyes and the stars beam- 
ing out. 
One rosy hand clasping the green boughs above 
her, 
One daintily tossing the flowers about, 
The Graces peep out from the depths of her 
dimples. 
The Naiads are born where her eye-glances 
stray — 
Under the pines, though the long years have 
vanished, 
Under the pines she is standing to-day ! 

Under the pines ! — ah, forever and ever 

The Nymphs build their booths and the Naiads 
their cave. 
And there 'neath the bowers she is tossing her 
flowers — 

298 



from Tennessee 

For Time cannot take back the picture he 
gave ! 
O, life with your strife, O, death with your 
darkness, 
Ye have taken the tinsel and left me the gold ! 
For deep in my heart where the evergreens 
hide he'-. 
Still tossing her flowers she stands as of old. 

^ ^ ^ 

THE MUSIC OF THE PINES. 

FAR away, like fairy bugles, when the shades 
of night are on. 
Comes again the memory-music of my childhood 

days agone, agone. 
Comes again the sheen of hillside where the 

long-leaf needles lay. 
And the spots of softened sunshine flecking 

through the latticed way, 
Come again the distant echoes of my playmates 

from their shrines. 
And they come with elfm music, with the music 

of the pines. 
With the misty, memory-music of the band 

among the pines. 

Once again their half-heard laughter floats from 
out the past to rise 

299 



Songs and Stories ^ 

As an echo from hereafter in that playground 'mid \ 

the skies ; \ 

Once again the resinous odors through my dream- 
ing senses spread j 

As the frankincense from flowers that we buried ; 

with our dead, i 

And I stop my work to listen to the bells in mem- ; 

ory's mines, i 

Tinkling on the swelling hillside to the music of ; 

the pines, ■ 

To the half-heard, half-dreamt music of the band - 

among the pines. • 

Now I see the yellow sunlight sifted through the j 

sieve of spears, ] 

And I hear the zephyr lullabies of long forgotten ; 

years. 

How the band above me thunders as the swaying \ 

tree tops shake ! ] 
And now it falls as calmly sweet as starlight on 

a lake. 

And as the passing pinions sweep above in lilting j 

lines, ' 

I almost see the angels in that band among the \ 

pines, i 

See the angels as they sing and swing amid the i 

swaying pines. 

j 

O, how often in the glory of the days forever ; 

gone, I 

300 i 



from Tennessee 

I have drunk the crooning story of that mimic 
Alpine horn. 

There's a solace in its soughing that no earthly 
music brings, 

There's a cadence in its wooing never heard in 
court of kings, 

There's a rhythm in the rustle of its low en- 
chanting lines, 

For heaven's sweetest zephyrs made the music 
of the pines. 

Swept the lyre of lyric needles in that band 
among the pines. 

I have heard the martial music of a conquering 

army come 
With the blare of boastful bugle and the thunder 

of the drum. 
I have mused upon the measures of a sweet 

Italian band 
Till my reeling spirit wandered as a bird in Eden- 
land ; 
But there is no earthly music e'er conceived in 

mortal minds 
Like the music of my childhood in the band 

among the pines, 
Like the music that I ne'er shall hear again from 

out the pines. 



301 



Songs and Stories 



THE EVENING STAR. 



H 



EART of the sunset sky — 
Sleeping so quietly, 
Flushed with the pinkness of sleep and of rest. 
Heart of the sleeping sky — 
Throbbing with ecstasy — 
Pulsing the pink through the breast of the west. 

Soul of the dying sky — 

Dying so quietly, 
Melting and merging in shadows of night. 

Soul of the dying sky, 

Dying — yet gloriously. 
Living again in thy life and thy light. 

^ ^ ^ 

TO A MORNING GLORY. 

THOU art the dream of Nature when she 
sleeps 
And dreams of youth-time and sweet April's 
eyes. 
And slum'bring now, lo ! 'round her breast there 
creeps 
This pictured vision of departed skies. 
302 



from Tennessee 

Departed skies, concaved, with clouds of 

snow 
Cerulean-depthed, that left us long ago. 

And thou art Nature's memory when she wakes 
All conscience-clear and weeping o'er the past, 
Clear-visioned, keen, her yearning soul partakes 
Of thp.t which was, but was too pure to last. 
And so she holds, with soft light break- 
ing low, 
Holds to her heart the hopes of long ago. 

^ ^ ^ 

THE SUMMER OF LONG AGO. 

DO you know the land, the fairest land 
In the mythical realms of old ? 
Where the earth and the air, and the flowers rare 

All sleep 'neath a sun of gold ? 
Where the elf-king's bugle in winding note 
Drowns the dreamy drum in the black bee's 
throat, 
And the fairy queen floats in her peach-bloom 
boat ? 
The fire-flies dance where the lily-maids meet 
And the flowers are dreams that lie at your feet 
In the Summer of Long Ago. 

Do you know the land, the sweetest land, 
In the rhythmical realms of old ? 
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Songs and Stories 

Where the moon and her beams bring the 
romancing gleams 
Of a love you never have told ? 
Where the star king's horsemen in platoons of 
light 
Bring your soul-secret love on a palfrey of 
white, 
And her lips meet your lips ere she taketh her 
flight ? 
The will-o'-wisp drops like a star from the sun, 
And the brooklets are poems that rhyme as 
they run 

In the Summer of Long Ago. 

Have you seen the queen of that beautiful land 

In the radiant realms of old ? 
With eyes like the stars of the May-pop bars, 

And throat like the lily's fold ? 
Queen of your home in that yet-to-be day. 

To hold you in bondage forever and aye. 
Yet to love and to cherish, to bless and obey — 

And queen even now in a kingdom above — 
The little sweetheart you first learned to love 
In the Summer of Long Ago. 



304 



from Tennessee 



TRUTH IN BEAUTY. 

** Beauty is truth, truth beauty " — that is all 
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 

— Keats — Ode on a Grecian Urn. 

(To a gifted organist.) 

SOOTHED is my spirit when you touch the 
keys, 
And, like a cloud, my soul floats far away ; 
My throbbing fancies throng as dreaming bees 
To suck the flowers that spring up when you 
play— 
O, that I thus at last might sip and pass *mid 
sweets away ! 

Whence comes such rapturous pain from simple 
bars. 
Such tender-hurting, joy-bewidow'd sweet ? 
Such pouring glory — cataract of stars — 
Bubbles of beauty bursting at my feet, 
Or floating into dreamland streams where Fay 
and Fancy meet ? 

The rainbow gleams along that splendid arch 
Where from your fingers fall the quiv'ring 
drops. 
20 305 



Songs and Stories 

And now, sunset ; and now the misty march 
Of timbrel-twinkling planets, o'er the tops 
Of organ-chords, aeolian-peaked, with star-em- 
blazoned stops. 

Above the earth, above the wheeling flight 

Of mute, yet clearest pealing minstrelsy — 
One glimpse of that which made creation 
bright. 
One glimpse of first love's sun of ecstacy — 
Then down to earth where musick'd streams purl 
with pebbled symphony. 

O, thus to live — thus ever, ever live, 

Wedded to Art, with handmaid Hope at side, 
Crushing her lips with lips that dare to give 
The winter tempest for the summer tide — 
For sweetest of all weddings yet is that where 
Art is bride. 

O, thus to love, forever, ever love, 

Changeless in beauty and star-lived in grace. 
To hear but the rustle of her robes above — 
To catch the star-beams from her fountained 
face — 
For dearer is Art's fmger-kiss than Passion's 
whole embrace ! 

O Faith, O Hope — the poet and his sky — 
O Joy, O Death — the bondman and the 
freed — 

306 



from Tennessee 

O Love, you, too, must bow beneath that eye 
Where naught of earth, or earthy, hath a 
breed — 
For infant Truth a greater hero is than gray- 
haired Deed, 

Truth which comes in Beauty, as to-night 
Comes this sweet Truth in simple harmony — 

Calming the quick waves of my soul's affright. 
And from the depths of an unsounded sea. 
Starting this broken wave above a sea of melody. 

^ ^ ^ . 

THE FAITH OF OLD. 

THE years with their changes come, and the 
years with their plans unfold. 
But give me the peace my heart hath known in 

the sweet dream-days of old. 
It comes to my soul to-night, like the dream of a 

dream at dawn. 
Like the smell of the rain on the ripen'd grain, at 

the first flush of the morn. 
Then rush with the maddened throng, and battle 

for fame and gold. 
And furl your flags 'mid the wrath of wrong — I'll 

cling to the peace of old. 

The years with their follies come, with their fol- 
lies and then their woe ; 

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Songs and Stories 

But give me the hope of the years I knew in the 

summer of long ago. 
It comes to my heart to-night like the song of the 

birds and the bees, 
Like the blue of the skies that over them rise and 

the sway of 'the leaf in the trees. 
Then follow the fickle throng, and clamor both 

loud and bold. 
And drown Truth's voice with the drums of 

Wrong — I'll cling to the hope of old. 

The years with their visions come, and go, as a 

tale that is told — 
But give me the faith my mother taught in the 

bright, glad days of old. 
It comes to my soul to-night, and I know there's 

a God above, 
Else why should I long, in an infinite song, to tell 

of the depths of love ? 
Then kneel to the tinseled knave, and offer your 

soul at his shrine — 
You bind your wreaths on the brow of a slave — 

I'll cling to the hand Divine. 



308 



from Tennessee 



CHRISTMAS MORN. 

IN the beauty of its breaking, in the music of its 
dawn, 
Like an angel chorus 'waking when the 
Heavenly day is born, — 

Comes again the day of promise, 

Comes again the Christmas morn. 

Beam, bright Eastern sky in glory, till our doubt 

clouds roll away ; 
Ring, sweet Christmas bells, the story, — ring for- 
ever and for aye. 

Till our living be but loving 
And our dying be but day. 



^^ 1^^ ^^ 



ALONE. 

MY love and I sailed out to sea 
When the dream days came with purpling 
sky. 
And her laugh was the winds at play, to me, 
And her eyes the stars I guided by. 
Her hand touched mine, 'mid the breaker's roar, 
And new strength came to the lagging oar — 
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Songs and Stories 

Her lips met mine in the tempest's blast 
And new life flashed in the straining mast. 

My love and I sailed out to sea, 

And life was full and sweet for me, 

Till our boat plunged under a death-wave dark — 

And I sailed alone in a drifting barque 1 

Now the skies are gray, and the winds at play 

Mourn drearily o'er the sea all day. 

And I look in vain through the fog and rain 

For the wave that will bring me to her again. 



'%'%'%' 



TO WHITTIER, DEAD. 

AY, speed thou on, gray voyager, 
But not to a breezeless sea 1 
Nor shall oblivion claim the soul 
That lived and loved in thee. 

The heart that throbbed for others, 
The mind that thought no wrong. 

The lips that always spoke the truth 
Through soul of courage strong, 

O, these shall live forever, 
God gave them, not to die. 

But sweetly bloom above thy tomb 
Through all eternity. 

310 



from Tennessee 



THE CHURCH OF THE HEART. 



D 



EEP in the dales of the human heart, 
Deep in the dells of the soul, 
Where the springs of the innermost passions start. 
Where the brooks of Hope and Happiness part 

And the flowers of life unfold, 
Is a temple whose vespers rise and swell. 
Yet it hath no priest and it hath no bell. 

'Tis loftier far than the dome of the sky, 

'Tis deeper down than the sea, 
It catches the gleam of the stars as they fly 
And the music they make as they wander by 

With their heavenly minstrelsy, 
Music — but whence no mortal can tell — 
For it hath no priest and it hath no bell. 

No glitter of tinsel, no blight of gold, 

No fashion of rank and lies. 
No creeds in their coffmed urns of old, 
Where the dust lies deep on their hearts of mold, 

No altar where prides arise — 
And yet no cathedrals in beauty excel — 
Tho' it hath no priest and it hath no bell. 

And here hath the crushed and the desolate 

prayed 
From the depth of their soul's despair, 
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Songs and Stories 

And hither hath sad-eyed Sorrow strayed, 
And outcast Hope hath sobbed and laid 

Her head on the altar there. 
And never Anathema rings their knell, 
For it hath no priest and it hath no bell! 

O, glorious church of the heart divine — 
(O, conscience — priest to us all !) 
High o'er the world may your sweet dome shine- 
With your silent priest in this heart of mine — 

And the image of Love on your wall. 
O, Church of the heart — 'tis there God dwells 
Tho' it hath no priests and it hath no bells ! 

^ ^ ^ 

THE CHRIST-STAR HAS RISEN. 



T 



TWILIGHT and Christmas Eve- 
Sky bright with starry weave, 
Moonlight and music o'er earth and in air. 
Sweet bell and swelling note, 
Heart-hopes that rise and float 
Faith-winged to heaven in flash-lights of prayer. 

Sunrise and Christmas morn. 

Love lies so lowly born — 

Heaven and Human in meekness have met ; 

Hope — tho' the light be low. 

Faith — through the blight and blow — 

The Christ-star has risen, it never will set ! 
312 



from Tennessee 



A MEMORY. 

OTHE mem'ry of the mistletoe that graced 
that Christmas scene ! 
And the berries in the holly wreath like rosebuds 

red between, 
And the smell of fragrant cedar, even yet an 
evergreen. 

O, the beauty of the dainty hands that twined 

the holly through, 
And the snowy neck and cheeks that made the 

roses blush anew. 
Now I never smell the cedar but I see the maiden, 

too. 

O, the glory and the story in those eyes of tender 

trust ! 
Not all the world of sermons can convince me 

they are dust. 
For the starlight lives forever and love's mem'ry 

hath no rust ! 

Up in heaven with the angels she is twining 

wreaths to-night. 
In her Father's many mansions 'mid the dazzling 

glory-light 
She has laid aside a love-wreath for one tired in 

the fight. 

313 



Songs and Stories 



EULALEE. 

Eulalee, sweet Eulalee, 
The years have passed, but still I see 
Your laughing eyes 'neath snood of red, 
And the bending skies of blue o'erhead. 
The partridge calls 'mid the dreamy corn. 
For the night dew falls and the shades creep on, 
And I say '* good night," for the grass is wet. 
And your last words are — *' I love you yet !" 

Eulalee, sweet Eulalee, 
The stars now roll 'twixt you and me. 
But I see your snood through the milky way, 
And your eyes beyond the starry ray. 
Your laughter comes with the sunbeams free 
And the dews that fall are your tears for me. 
And up to heaven, with hot cheeks wet, 
I look and hear — *' I love you yet 1" 

^ ^ ^ 

A MORNING RIDE. 

AWAY I away ! the coming day 
Breaks o'er the East in fans of gray, 
And purpling high the glowing sky, 
Blushes before the Master's eye. 
314 



from Tennessee 

steady, Marie ! my rein is free, 
Canter a bit in coltish glee. 
Your easy gallop is wine to me. 

Away ! away ! the new-mown hay 

Has scented all the valleys gay. 

The cool, moist air is thick, but rare 

With odor never known elsewhere. 

Come, now, Marie ! you change, I see. 
To single-foot, so swift and free — 
A palace car is a cart to thee ! 

Away ! away 1 no stop nor stay. 

Hark ! Heard you e'er such music, pray ? 

What melting rout now falls about 

To tell the mocking-bird is out 1 

Come, come, Marie ! Tm watching thee ! 

A fickle miss I fear you be 

To change to running walk with me. 

Away ! away ! ah ! primrose gay 
You're dressed, I see, for the race to-day, 
And in the bloom of his feath'ry plume 
The alder lends you his perfume. 

Then go, Marie ! show them, for me. 
How the swallow skims the crystal sea — 
The pacing queen one day you'll be ! 



3^5 



Songs and Stories 



IMMORTALITY. 

HOW like a second nature to our souls 
Is immortality. 'Tis not of earth, 
But comes a ray from heaven, that unfolds 
The budding instinct of another birth. 

Who from the void can make a man but God ? 

And if God make him, shall He then ordain 
That, having breathed upon the senseless clod, 

Back to the void shall turn His work again ? 
Through endless time no more nor yet no less 

Than making man for woe and wretchedness ? 

Away the thought ! The deathless Deed that 
springs 

From out its dust-encumbered home of clay, 
And, like a beam of morning, folds its wings 

Only 'mid the twilight of a perfect day — 
This cannot die ! Tis part of God himself, 

A heart-throb of Infinity ! 

The Thought that spans the arch of silent stars, 

Scaling the rugged battlements, where rise 
The roof above time's own grim prison bars — 

Searching beneath the shadows of eternal skies 
For captive Truth — this cannot die ! 'Tis God's 
own child 
Exiled to earth, now seeking home again ! 
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from Tennessee 



LIFE'S CHRISTMAS. 

THE faint, sweet light breaks over the hills, 
To waken the chords of memory's bells 
And bring us Christmas morning. 
O, Christmas morning, fresh and clear, 
Is this your token of a glad New Year ? 
Is this your emblem of a good new cheer 
To come with your hallowed dawning ? 

The glad east glows with resplendent beam 
And wakens from sleep a childhood's dream 

Of a Christmas gone forever. 
O, childhood's Christmas, now no more, 
Come from the sheen of that evergreen shore ! 
Come with your faith and your hope of yore — 

Come with your honest endeavor. 

The bold, bright sun mounts up to his throne 
With eagle speed through the paling zone, 

And manhood's Christmas hangs o'er us. 
O, manhood's Christmas, bold and strong, 
Give us your boldness to battle the wrong, 
Give us your power the fight to prolong — 

Shine in your glory before us. 

The pale west glows with a purpling light, 
That rolls in serried columns bright. 
Where the day king's banners rally. 
317 



Songs and Stories 

But now 'tis gone, and night is nigh ; 
O, then may our good deeds glitter on high, 
And our past pure thoughts bespangle our sky 
To light our way through the valley. 



BEAUTY. 

SWEET is the grace of beauty, and it holds 
The imprisoned earth within its radiant 

folds. 
It steals upon us like the rosy hue 
Of morning's blush, and while the sweet cool 

dew 
Moistens and freshens the dead grass of our hope, 
It bursts like love-stars on our horoscope. 
Like Dian's locks, her flashing charms deter 
Yet make the light by which we worship her. 
The eyes of children, flute notes of a bird. 
Flowers that 'round them beading dewdrops gird, 
Skies of blue and gold at wedding morn. 
Lips that touch when sweet young love is born, 
These strew her pathway, Iris-crowned they rise 
When beauty's sun lights up life's 'wakening 
skies. 



318 



from Tennessee 



IT CAN NOT BE. 

IT can not be that this poor life shall end us ! 
God's words are truthful and His ways are 
just. 
He would not here to sin and sorrow send us, 
And then blot out our souls with **dust to 
dust;'' 
Saving our clay, and back to Nature giving, 
Smothering our soul ere it hath had its living. 
It can not be ! 

It can not be that One so just and perfect 

Would make a perfect universe, and plan 
The star of all should be at last imperfect — 
Life, yet leave that life half-lived in wretched 
man. 
Forever lives the gross — the dead material — 
Forever dies the life — the spark imperial ? 
It can not be ! 

It can not be, for life is more than living ; 

It can not be, for death is more than dream. 
Think ye to clod God daily life is giving. 

Yet from the grave shut out the grander beam ? 
Night is but day ere it hath had its dawning — 
Death a brief night, and waiteth for the morning, 
Which soon shall be ! 
319 



Songs and Stories 

Thou art not dead, dear one, I know thou livest, 
Thou art not dead, for still the bright stars 
shine. 
Thou art not dead, for yet the live sun giveth 
Light — and had he e'er so sweet a light as 
thine ? 
Good-night ! — good-bye, were sorrow's grave of 

sorrow ! 
Good-night ! — for we shall live and love to- 
morrow. 

Because God lives ! 



A LITTLE CRY IN THE NIGHT. 

A LITTLE cry in the night, 
And fainter still at the dawn, 
And the shadows creep — then endless sleep, 
Before the day is gone. 

A little cry in the night. 

So weak and yet so clear ; 
For many a day has passed away 

And yet that cry I hear. 

That little cry in the night — 

With the pleading eyes of blue- 
Wondering why, with their little cry, 
They must live and suffer too. 
320 



from Tennessee 

Must suffer and then must sleep, 
Tho' their day had just begun — 

A little pain, then night again, 
And their little task undone. 

A little cry in the night — 
A clear, sweet voice at even : 

** My little cry was just good-bye, 
I'm waiting for you in heaven." 



^ ^ ^ 

'TIS BUT A DREAM. 

DEEP in the night a timid, pleading voice, 
A curly head above my pillow bent, 
A sob, partaking part of Hope's rejoice, 

And part of Doubt's despair and sad lament. 
Dear nestling head — sweet sleep ! The first sun- 
beam : 
** O, Father, I'm so glad 'twas but a dream !" 

Methinks I, too, shall wake some gracious morn, 
After life's dream and death's deep hushed 
night. 

And as God's presence ushers in the dawn, 
And His smile makes an aureole of light, 

Then will the past a fretful vision seem : 

** O, Father, I'm so glad 'twas but a dream I" 



21 



321 



Songs and Stories 



THE PINES OF MONTEREY. i 

O SHADOW in a maiden's eye ! 

, Is love that once has been ! j 

O, sweet moon-rainbow in the sky i 

That shuts our poor life in ! v 

I see the young morn blushing, I see the cheek \ 

of May I 
Come paling, pinking, flecking, flushing — 

Through the pines of Monterey. ^ 

Dear evergreens of memory — 

Sweet garlands of the past — :, 

The festooned frame of pictured sky ] 

That will forever last ! 

I hear the faint bells ringing, I feel the breath of i 

May ! 

Come soughing, soughing, sobbing, singing — i 

Through the pines of Monterey. ^ 

O, voices of the present day, ^ 

Vain sounds upon a blast — \ 

Leave me, let me weep away i 

The sweet tears of the past. ■ 

I hear her dear voice calling, I hear her voice | 

to-day I 

Come laughing, ling'ring, falt'ring, falling — > i 

Through the pines of Monterey. . 

322 



from Tennessee 



TO AN AMERICAN BOY. 

BE manly, lad — your folks have made 
Their way by work and waiting, 
Be manly, lad — a spade's a spade 

Though it hath a silver plating. 
For all must work or all must steal — 

What's idleness but stealing ? 
To each will come his woe and weal 

His weak or strong revealing. 
And work makes brains, but error's chains 

Are forged in fashion's idleness ! 

Be honest, lad — you weaker grow 

From gain that's falsely gotten. 
Be honest, lad — what's outward show 

When all within is rotten .? 
For each must live or each must die — 

What's honor lost, but dying ? 
To live with Truth and you a lie ! — 

Was ever death more trying ? 
And Truth makes men — but falsehood's den 

Is the home of dwarfs and pigmies ! 



323 



Songs and Stories 



OUR BOB. 

(Introducing Governor Robert L. Taylor, in his famous 
lecture, " The Fiddle and the Bow.") 

WITH humor as sweet as our Basin 
When the clover bloom gathers the dew, 
And pathos as deep as our valley 

When the clouds shut the stars from our view, 
With wisdom as rich and as fertile 

As our plains when they first feel the plow, 
And wit like the tapestry frostwork 

That hangs on the Great Smoky's brow, 
With grand thoughts as strong as our mountains 

And tender ones sweetly that flow, 
Like the music that steals o'er our senses 

At his touch of ** The Fiddle and Bow," 
The bee that hath sucked every blossom 

Each Tennessee flower to rob 
And stored up the rich, golden honey 

In a genius that's ours — Our Bob ! 



324 



from Tennessee 



TO BURNS. 

THERE is no death for genius, for it leaps, 
Fount-like, from source to limpid depths 
again. 
There is no death for genius, for it sleeps 
To wake refreshed in each new life's sweet 
pain. 
O, Burns, how rich and sweet thy stream of 
song. 
Pouring from mountain dale and hawthorn 
glen, 
Bright as the channel where Ayr flashed along, 
Deep as the sea beyond Ben Lomond's ken. 
Bubbling, it bursts out like thy mountain springs. 
Out from the cool depths of great nature's 
mart. 
Slaking the fevered thirst our life toil brings, 
Reflecting all the star-domes of our heart. 
Here at thy fount, O, let me drink and know 
That God still reigns and man is king below. 



325 



Songs and Stories 



WORK THROUGH IT ALL. 

HOPE, tho' misfortune overtake you, 
Smile, tho' you go to the wall. 
Bend to the blast that would break you, 
But work, aye, work through it all. 

Weep, when the cloud of your sorrow 
Comes with its mist and its pall. 

But tears make your rainbow to-morrow 
If you work as you weep — through it all. 

Give, for you grow with the giving, 
Live, but with love at your call, 

Be brave, be a man in your living, 
And work as a man through it all. 

Look up, as the weaver of laces. 
Your pattern hung high on the wall, 

Your soul on the beauty it traces. 
Your hands busy working withal. 



326 



from Tennessee 



MOLLIE. 

No fern-leaf sprang from mountain-moss, 
With blither grace than Mollie's, 
No lily on the lake across 

Had fairer face than Mollie's. 
And when the lily lifted up 
The bubbling bubbles in her cup 
From cut-glass pools where fern-maid's sup, 
She drank a health to Mollie. 

No wild-sloe hid, 'neath tan and red, 

A ruddier blush than Mollie's, 
No wild-rose held a queenlier head 

Where sang the thrush than Mollie's. . 
And when the red-thrush saw the maid — 
A glint of glory down the glade — 
He sang his sweetest serenade, 

A serenade for Mollie. 

No muscadine peeped from her vine 
With saucier eyes than Mollie's. 

No wild-bee sought her globes of wine 
With softer sighs than Mollie's, 

For when she sighed, and I did make 

Me bold, a trembling kiss to take, 

I saw them all — wine, roses, lake — 
All in the eyes of Mollie. 
327 



Songs and Stories 



O VOICES THAT LONG AGO LEFT ME. 

O VOICES that long ago left me, 
O eyes that were long ago bright, 
How often you come when the shadows 

Creep into the eyes of the night, 
When the moon-misted shadow encloses 

The sorrow-starred eyes of the night — 
V\^ith you in a wreathing of roses 
And rhymed in the laughter of light. 

O, voices that long ago left me, 

O, eyes that were long ago bright. 
Why, why do you come with the shadows 

And why do you not with the light — 
In the sun-shimmer'd glory of olden. 

In the sun-silvered sweetness of light? 
Have you learned that our tears become golden 

When merged with the music of flight ? 

Then lead me, dear voices that left me. 

And bring me, dear eyes that were bright. 
To that home where you now dwell forever, 

To that land where there never is night — 
To that love-ling'ring land where the portal 

Knows naught of the shadow of night. 
And the wreathing of roses immortal 

Is rhymed with the laughter of light. 
328 



from Tennessee 



A RAY FROM CALVARY. 

O CHRISTMAS, happy Christmas, in the 
days that bring their cheer, 

One thought amid the centuries grows brighter 
every year : 

That not alone for man was made the sweet- 
ness of thy birth. 

And not alone for him was decked the holly- 
wreathed earth, 

But all that on Him doth depend, like Him might 
blessed be. 

And catch the reflex of that ray that fell from 
Calvary. 

^ ^ ^ 



u 



MARJORIE. 

P in the hills of Tennessee 
Lives Marjorie — sweet Marjorie. 

There ain't a bird but stops his song 
When down the lane she rides along- 
Stops his singin' just to stare 
And wonder where she got that hair 
So deeply golden, floatin' there ! 
And why her eyes ain't baby blue 
329 



Songs and Stories j 

Instead of twilight beamin* through ? '•■ 

(For birds do know a thing or two !) •■ 

They know that wavy, rosy flout | 

Of sunset tress in dreamy rout 1 

Should have some sky of blue about. | 
But when them eyes, full to the brim 

Of stars and love, look up at them, ■; 

And daylight blush o'er cheek is spread 1 

From cheeks just pulped to melon red, ] 
And o'er that sweet dream face is born 

The light that kind o' comes with morn, j 

They ketch their breaths and sing away — ] 

She's turned their eve to break o' day I ^ 

Up in the hills of Tennessee { 

Lives Marjorie — brave Marjorie. ; 

Loud boomed the Harpeth, as adown ] 

She rode like mad to Franklin town. i 

The Judge's daughter — the county's star — ; 

(For years I'd worshiped her afar !) i 

** Too high in life," they whispered me, ] 

'* To look with favor, lad, on thee.'* i 

But love will climb to star itself — | 

What careth it for worldly pelf .? ] 

The Judge was stricken ; to the ford, ; 

A keen plum switch for stingin' goad, ) 

Her saddle mare like mad she rode ! ] 

Forgetting flood and angry wave j 

She spurred — her father's life to save ! j 
(Alas, her own she all but gave.) 
330 



from Tennessee 

Plowin' that day on the horse-shoe side, 

I stopped when I saw her frantic ride. 

I rushed where the tall creek willows grow — 

Where the swirling waters roared below — 

I waved, I beckoned, shouted— all 

Were lost in the lashing water's fall ! 

I saw the mare swept from her feet, 

I saw an emptied saddle seat. 

I plunged — what cared I for the roar, 

Born, as I was, on the Harpeth shore ? 

What to me was my burden frail, 

I, who could lift a cotton bale ? 

Did e'er an arm that had tossed the wheat 

Hold before a bundle so sweet ? 

But Harpeth was mad as a frenzied colt, 
And shot his flood like a thunderbolt. 
The big waves swept with giant scorn. 
And once I thought we both were gone ! 
Did she know it, then, when a kiss I brushed 
On cheek that e'en in the waters blushed } 
Did she hear the words of love I said ? 
(I couldn't help it — I thought she was dead !) 
Struggling, battling, I landed, but could 
Not meet her eyes — she understood. 
*M'm safe," she said, and my hand she 

took, 
(And gave me one, just one love look,) 
*' Now mount your horse, for the doctor ride ; 
Save my father and — I'm your bride !" 
331 



Songs and Stories 

Up in the hills of Tennessee 
Lives Marjorie — dear Marjorie. 

You can't climb up that tall hill there 
And look way down that valley fair, 
But what your gaze will rest on ground 
That's mine — all mine — for miles around. 
That Jersey herd, that bunch of mares, 
Them frisky colts with all their airs, 
That Southdown flock in yonder dell, 
Followin' the tinklin' wether-bell. 
Them barns and paddocks gleaming white, 
That home shut in with God's own light. 
And all them fields of wheat and corn 
That sweep clear down to Amberhorn. 
I earned 'em all — no gamblin' tricks, 
But hones' work and tellin' licks. 

But best of all, 'twixt you and me, 
That girl is mine — my Marjorie 1 



^ ^ ^ 

BLUE JAY. 

OTHE world is all against you, Blue Jay, 
, Blue Jay ; 
O, the world is all against you now, I say. 
With your tweedle, tweedle, tweedle, 
And your jay ! jay ! jayl 
332 



from Tennessee 

And your saucy, whistling wheedle 
Just before you fly away 
To pounce down on the juciest and the sweetest 

roasting ear ; 
To steal the ripest Concords in the sunshine 

purpling near ; 
To run off all the song-birds with your blust'ring, 

bragging tongue, 
And break the hearts of mother birds by eating 

up their young — 
Then to perch up on the highest limb upon the 

apple tree 
And call up mourners 'round you with your 
tweedle, tweedle, twee' ! 

You're a robber, robber, robber, 

Blue Jay, Blue Jay, 
And a hypocrite and bully. 
As all the world doth say. 

O, the world is all against you. Blue Jay, Blue 

Jay; 
O, the world is all against you now, I say, 
But your tweedle, tweedle, tweedle, 

And your jay ! jay ! jay ! 
And your saucy, laughing wheedle 
Brought again to me, to-day. 
The time we stole together, in the summer long 

ago, 
The cherries and the peaches and the grapes of 
purple glow. 

333 



Songs and Stories 

The day we climbed the chestnut for the yellow 

hammer's nest, 
And you gave it up, disconsolate, because I 

robbed the best ! 
And I see the old home once again, the fig trees 

in the sun, 
While a boy slips all around them with a single- 
barrel gun. 
And he brings it to his shoulder as he sees a bob- 
bing head — 
Bang ! and he's a murderer — for old Blue Jay is 
dead ! 
Was I a robber, robber, 

In the summer long ago. 
When I barbecued and ate you 
With my sportsman's pride aglow ? 

Ah, some grown-up folks are like you. Blue Jay, 

Blue Jay ; 
Ah, some grown-up folks are like you now, I say — 
For they tweedle, tweedle, tweedle. 

When they wish to have their way, 
And they wheedle, wheedle, wheedle. 
In their tricks of trade to-day. 
And they pounce upon their fellow-man and steal 

his very best — 
His eggs of reputation, and his cherries — happi- 
ness. 
And you'll find their crops distended with the 
plunder they have won, 
334 



from Tennessee 

While their tongues are shooting slander (ah, 'tis 

worse than any gun), 
And they thrive and fill and fatten till they go 

to get their due 
In another world — Oh, Blue Jay, won't they 
make a barbecue ? 

Then sing away your robber song 

Of jay ! jay ! jay ! 
Till some robber mortal comes along 
And sees himself to-day. 



SUCCESS. 

'nniS the coward who quits to misfortune, 
1 'Tis the knave who changes each day, 

'Tis the fool who wins half the battle, 
Then throws all his chances away. 

There is little in life but labor. 

And to-morrow may find that a dream ; 

Success is the bride of Endeavor, 
And luck — but a meteor's gleam. 

The time to succeed is when others. 
Discouraged, show traces of tire. 

The battle is fought in the homestretch — 
And won — 'twixt the flag and the wire ! 
335 



Songs and Stories 



WHEN THE COLTS ARE IN THE RING. 

(As Riley would see it.) 

OTHE fair time, the rare time, I can feel it 
, in the air, 
As we take our brimming baskets and go out to 

see the fair ; 
The lasses decked with ribbons red, the colts 

with ribbons blue — 
What a trial for the gallant lads to choose between 

the two ! 
No season of old mother earth can half such 

blessings bring 
When the bloom is on the maiden and the colts 

are in the ring, 

O, the beauty of the bonnie curls— the rapture of 

the race ! 
O ! the maiden with the pretty foot — the filly 

that can pace ! 
The one in russet harness with a halter I can 

hold. 
But the other*s got me harnessed in her wavy 

hair of gold. 
O, the autumn time is full of joy and every 

goodly thing, 

336 



from Tennessee 

When the bloom is on the maiden and the colts 
are in the ring. 

O, the fair time, the rare time, when the Jer- 
seys set the pace 

In a sheen of silken colors and a skin of chrome 
lace, 

And the Berkshires tie their tails up in a lovely 
Psyche knot. 

And the Shorthorns and the Shropshires and 
Southdowns make it hot. 

**I wouldn't live here always," is the doleful 
song they sing, 

Who never loved a maiden while the colts were 
in the ring. 

O, the fair time, the rare time, in our life a ver- 
dant spot, 

When the people are all jolly and their trials are 
forgot ; 

And I sit and muse in fancy to the days so long ago 

When I sparked my little sweetheart out to see 
the County show. 

Since then old Time has made me dance — to-day 
I'll make him sing. 

For the bloom is on the maiden and the colts are 
in the ring. 



337 



Songs and Stories 



FAIR TIMES IN OLD TENNESSEE. 

FAIR time in ole Tennessee, days jes' to yer 
makin', 

Nights so cool an' crispy, jes' the kind for 'pos- 
sum shakin', 

Mornin's bright wid sun an' light of frosty dew 
an' flashy, 

Weather jes' the kind to make the little nigger 
ashy ! 

Bacon in de rafters, sorghum mills er grindin' 
sweetin', 

Punkins in de hay loft an' religun in de meetin' ! 

Fair time in ole Tennessee, ebery body gwine, 
Wagginsfullo'prittygals,dair ribbons jes' a-flyin'. 
Pikes jes' full o' people, an' de woods jes' full o' 

niggers 
A-leadin' ob de pacin' colts wid marks down in 

de figgers. 
Hoss an' jack an' jinny an' Jersey bull, all 

gwineter 
Git dar, 'kase deys brudders to dat good ole hoss, 

Hal Pinter ! 

Fair time in ole Tennessee, ebery body stirrin'— 
Cl'ar de road, dair comes er fool a'whippin' an' 



a'spurrin' ' 



338 



from Tennessee 

Look out dair yo' nigger, Julius Sezer Andrer 

Asi<er ! 
Lead dat pesky jack erside and let dis Hal hoss 

pass, suh ! 
Dun fergot your raisin', eh ? Fust thing dat you 

kno', suh, 
You think de State ob Tennessee dun drap on 

you, fer sho', suh ! 

Fair time in ole Tennessee, all de niggers dancin', 
All de hosses in de ring a-pacin' an' a-prancin', 
White folks drinkin' lemonade jes' lak it was col' 

water. 
Nigger drinkin' 'simmon beer, de drink he allers 

orter, 
Nights jes' full er moonlight wid de darkey's heel 

a-flyin' — 
Lord, when I die, jes' take me whar a fair is 

allers gwine ! 



/^ ^ ^ 



D' 



THE RABBIT TRAP. 

OWN in de sage fiel', settin' in de sno', 

I looks from de winder an' I sees whut 
is lef 
Uv er rickety rabbit trap, whar de tall weeds bio', 
An' little Phil made it by his own little se'f. 
339 



Songs and Stories 

He cut de pine sticks, an' he bent de peach 
bow, 
An' he whittled out de triggers wid his Barlo' 
blade. 
Den he slip off by hissef jes' es sly as he cud go. 
An' sot it by de big stump in de shugar glade. 

An' he laf an' he played twell de big red moon 
Riz frum de medder, an' dey tole 'im "cum 
ter bed." 
But he said : ** Daddy Wash, you must wake me 
mighty soon, 
Fur I'm gwinter ketch Brer Rabbit, sho', — an' 
you may have his head." 

Po' little Phil ! Ole Marster's lastes' chile, 
An' me an' Dinah nussed 'im an' we loved 'im 
lak our own, 
Wid sunlight allers in his heart and moonlight in 
his smile — 
But dey am sot foreber now and lef us here 
ter moan. 

Fur dey saunt fur me quick dat night 'bout 'leben, 
An' de white folks was cryin' 'round er little 
trundle-bed ; 
" Daddy Wash," sed po' little Phil, '' I'm gwinter 
up to Heaben, 
But you must watch my rabbit trap whilst I'm 
dead." 

340 



from Tennessee 

Down in de grabe yard whar de cedars bio* 
I looks frum de winder an' my tears fall ergain, 

Fur I sees er little grabe dar, out in de sno', 
An' little Phil sleeps in de sleet an' de rain. 

^ ^ ^ 

^'HUNTIN' O' THE QUAIL." 

DID you ever go a-huntin' on a crisp Novem- 
ber morn, 
When the frost had hung his laces on the locust 

and the thorn, 
When the air was like a tonic an' the sky was 

like a tone. 
An' a kind o' huntin' fever seemed a burnin' in 

your bone ? 
O, the music in the clatter as you canter to the 

fiel's ! 
O, the echo in the patter of the dogs upon your 

heels ! 
What a picture for a painter when the setters 

make a stand 
While that dreamy gleamy silence seems to settle 
on the land ! 

Are you ready, boys } 
''—Ready !" 
(Click ! click ! click !) 
Come, steady, dogs ! 
''—Steady !" 
(Click ! click ! click !) 
341 



Songs and Stories 

Then 'tis whir-ir-ir-ir ! 

Bang ! Bang ! Bang ! 
An' 'tis whir-ir-ir-ir ! 
Bang ! Bang ! Bang ! 
An' your heart jumps lil<e a rabbit tho' you didn't 

touch a tail — 
Still, you'd like to live forever — just a-huntin' o' 
the quail ! 

Did you ever stop for luncheon on a bright No- 
vember noon, 
Where the pines were lispin' lullabies an' the 

winds were all a-croon, 
Where a spring was just a-singin' an' a-dancin' 

down a hill, 
An' you tapped the tank where Nature runs her 

everlastin' still ? 
How the beaten biscuits fade beneath the fervor 

of your kiss ! 
How the sandwiches are laid beneath a blightin' 

that is bliss ! 
What an appetite for eatin' you discover you 

have got — 
O, wouldn't you be champion were you half as 
good a shot ? 

Are you ready, boys ? 
^*— Ready 1" . 
(Tap, tap, tap !) 
Are you steady, boys ?) 
^'—Steady !" 
(Tap, tap, tap !) 
342 



from Tennessee 

Then 'tis guggle, guggle, guggle, guggle ! 

Pop ! Pop ! Pop ! 

An' 'tis google, google, google, google ! 

Pop ! Pop ! Pop ! 

'Till you toss away the bottle as you would a 

twice-told tale — 
O, ain't it just too fine a sport ! — this huntin' o' 
the quail ? 

Did you ever come from huntin' on a sweet No- 
vember eve. 
When the sun was sorter sorry such a dreamy day 

to leave, 
When your heart was like a feather, an' your bag 

was like a lead. 
An' the liltin' of a lark was like a vesper over- 
head ? 
An' you found a poem strayin' an' a-swayin' on 

the gate 
While she chides you for a-stayin' with Diana 

out so late ! 
O, of course you stop to greet 'er an' to give 

'er half your birds — 
Ev'ry poem has a meter so you meet 'er with 
these words : 

Do you love me, Susie ? 

** — Love you !" 

(Kiss, kiss, kiss !) 

Will you wed me, Susie ? 

*'— Wed you !" 

(Bliss, bliss, bliss !) 

343 



Songs and Stories 

Then 'tis whir-ir-ir-ir ! 

(Your heart, yofir heart,) 
An' 'tis whir-ir-ir-ir ! 
(Her heart, her heart,) 
Just a-flutterin' like a covey with Cupid on their 

trail— 
O, it beats all kind o' huntin' when you bag 
that kind o' quail ! 



^ ^ ^ 



WHEN DE FAT AM ON DE POSSUM. 



o 



DE glory ob de fall days, de bes' ob all de 
year, 
Wid de smoke a curlin' up'ard in de mornin' 

crisp an' clear — 
When de days cum brimmin' ober wid de soft 

an' meller light, 
An' pollertics an' 'ligyum both ergwine day an' 

night ! 
O I don' want no better times den dese my life 

to fill, 
When de fat am on de possum an' de taters in 

de hill ! 

O de glory ob de fall days — O de splendor ob de 

morn — 
When de hills an' valleys echo wid de hunter's 

tuneful horn, 

344 



from Tennessee 

When de yaller gal braid up her ha'r an' sets out 

in de sun, 
An' de fat shoat in de beechwood snort an' whirl 

eroun' an' run ! 
You may talk erbout yer Promused Ian' — I've got 

it at my wish 
When de brown am on de possum an' de taters 

•in de dish ! 

Sum say dis am a wicked wurl an' full ob sin an' 

shame, 
Dat frenship's but er holler soun' an' love am 

but er name, 
Dat all de men am liars yit an' all de women 

false, 
Wid death an' taxes allers heah to make us rise 

and waltz. 
Dat mebbe so — one t'ing I kno' — it nebber seems 

to be 
When de taters in de possum — an' de possum am 

in me ! 

^ %. ^ 

LITTLE SAM. 

LO, de cabin's empty, 
De chilluns all am gohn, 
De jimsun weed gro' 'roun' de do', 

De grass dun tuck de cohn, 
De fiah am turned to ashes, 
De hoe-cake's col' an' clam ; 
345 



Songs and Stories 

I wants ter go to de Master now — 
He tuck po' little Sam. 

Po' little Sam, dat played erroun' de do', 

Dat wake me in de mohnin' when de chickens 

'gin ter cro', 
De Marster's royal cherriut cum down wid steeds 

ob flame. 
He had ten million angels but he wanted mine de 

same. 

His coffm wus er ole pine box, 

(Po' little lonesome waif !) 
Whut matter whar de col' clay am, 

Jes' so de soul am safe. 
I gethered cotton blossums, 

'Twus all de flowers I hed — 
Lak him, gohn in de mohnin' 

Befo' de dew wus shed. 

Po' little Sam, dat played erroun' de do', 

No more I'll heah him call me when de chickens 

'gin to cro', 
De Marster's royal cherriut cum down wid steeds 

ob flame. 
He had ten million angels but he wanted mine de 

same. 

Lo, my heart am empty, 

My life hopes dey am fled, 
Jes' cut dis ole dry tree down, Lord, 

De moss am on its head — 
346 



from Tennessee 

Why should de ole man sorrow heah 

Sence you tuk little Sam ? 
Jes' let me be thy servant, Lord, 

In de manshun whar he am ! 

Po' little Sam, dat played erroun' de do', 

Sum mohn' I'll heah him call me when de 

chicken 'gin to cro'. 
An' den de Marster's cherriut will take me es 

I am. 
Will take dis po' ole nigger home, to be wid 

little Sam. 

^ ^ ^ 



LETTIE. 

LETTIE — she lives in Orchard Room, 
An' the Square he lives near by. 
Orchard Room is a world of bloom. 

An' Lettie — she's its sky ! 
A valley of blossoms an' rose-perfume, 
An' Lettie's the rose — O, my ! 

Her cheeks, she stole frum the peaches 

Thet dimples an' pinks in the sun. 
Her lips, frum the cherries ; her eyes — black- 
berries ; 
Her laugh, frum the brooks thet run. 
Her soul ! — an angel drapt it onc't 
'Bout the time her life begun. 
347 



Songs and Stories 

The Square hed saunt his message, 

An' hit created a stir ! 
He was "gwine ter marry Lettie 

Or else know the reason fur " — 
Rich, an' he'd buried fo' good wives — 

Now he wanted to bury her ! 

I stopped Old Kate in the furrer ; 

I mounted an' rode erway, 
I b'leeves in sowin' to-morrer 

When I kno' I can reap to-day, 
An' trouble — I never will borrer — 

When I orter be makin' hay ! 

Down by the spring she was churnin' 
Her calico tucked to her knees, 

Her cheeks all flushed an' a burnin', 
Her hair flung out to the breeze. 

I looked — an' I felt my heart turnin' 
To butter — an' then ergin inter cheese ! 

I rode to the fence beside her. 

My heart went flippetty-flop, 
*T was churnin' up champagne cider 

An' sody an' ginger pop ! 
Old Kate hed nuthin' ter guide her 

An' she nacherly cum to er stop. 

** O, Lettie," I said, '' my darlin', 
Will you marry the old, fat Square ? 
348 



from Tennessee 

His heart — hit's es cold as his gizzard — 
His soul — hit's es scarce es his hair ! 

O, Lettie, sweet, why would the wild fawn 
Mate with the polar bear ?" 

She ducked her head (it was takin'), 
** O, Lettie, my heart you'll bust ! 

Will you really marry that bac'n ?" 

"Yes,"— slyly— ''Zeke, 'spec I must!" 

**0, Lettie, my darlin', why will ye ?" 
*' Cause — cause — you didn't ax me fust 1' 

I grabbed her there an' I kissed her, 

Kissed her over the fence, 
An' I got me a preacher. Mister — 

An' the Square ain't seed her sence ! 
Fur he's up at his house, in the attic, 

An' they say he's a raisin' a stir 
A-nussin' his gout an' rheumatic — 

While I'm — wal, I'm a-nussin' her ! 

^ ^ ^ 



o 



THE OLD PLANTATION. 

I'M sick an' tired an' lonely, 
, An' I'd give the worl', if only 
I could see the ole plantation where I played so 
long ago. 
See the willers — swishin', swishin' — 
In the creek — jes' right for fishin' — 
349 



Songs and Stories 

Hear the tinkle of the cow-bell in the medder jes' 
below, 
An' to lay there, blinkin', blinkin', 
In the hazy sun, an' thinkin' 
Of the batty-cakes fur supper, with the berries 
1 an' the cream. 

Of the batty-cakes an' berries that would vanish 
like a dream. 

O, I'm sick an' tired an' lonely, 
An' I'd give a boss if only 
I could drink ergin the buttermilk I drunk so long 
ago. 
In the dairy, cool an' curlin' 
With the water 'round it purlin' 
An' the white-wash walls a-shinin' in a microbe- 
killin' glow, 
Jes' to drink there, sorter dreamy, 
Eatin' hoe-cake, crisp an' creamy. 
With the smell of fryin' batty-cakes upon the 

evenin' air — 
Fryin' batty-cakes an' bacon floatin' on the 



O, I'm sick an' tired an' lonely, 
But I'd walk a state if only 
I could walk in on the ole folks that I loved so 
long ago, 
On the mother, knittin', knittin', 
An' the father smokin', sittin' 
350 



from Tennessee 

Where the sun-beams loved to flicker an* the 
moon-beams loved to flow, 
Jes' to set there, noddin', winkin'. 
Full of batty -cakes an' thinkin' 
'Bout time to kiss 'em good-night now, an' lay 

me down to sleep — 
Kiss 'em good-night now forever — an' then lay 
me down to sleep. 



^ ^ ^ 



RECONCILIATION. 

OUT from the meadow, bathed in bright- 
Bob— Bob— White ! 
An answer, back from the cool copse-height- 
Bob— White ! 
The humdrum beetle drones his horn, 
The cradling breezes lull the corn, 
But still that truant call goes on — 

Bob— Bob— White ! 
And back with keen Xantippe scorn — 
Bob— White ! 

Out from the meadow's ling'ring light — 

Bob— Bob— White ! 
An echo, back from the dark hill's height — 

Bob— White ! 
The drowsy night-lids droop adown. 
With ribbon'd rays her ringlets bound — 
351 



Songs and Stories 

And still there echoeth 'round and 'round — 

Bob— Bob— White ! 
And still from the hill that haughty sound — 

Bob— White ! 

Faintly now from the copse-hill's height — 

Bob— Bob— White ! 
And fainter yet, 'mid the soft twilight — 

Bob— White ! 
Was that the chirruping sound of a kiss, 
The star-beam's dream of a wedded bliss, 
Or the faintest kind of a call like this — 

Thy— Bob— White ! 
And the softest kind of an answer — 'tis : 

Quite right ! 



^ ^ ^ 

LONGIN' FUR TENNESSEE. 

(A Lament from Yankee Land.) 
I'M longin', jes' er longin' fur a sight ob 



o 



, Tennessee, 
Fur de cabin in de valley 'neath de shady ellum- 

tree. 
Fur de purple on de hill-top, an' de green upon de 

plain, 
An' dat hazy, lazy sweetness jes' ter fill my 

bones ergain. 

352 



from Tennessee 

Do de colts all cum a-pacin' lak dey useter cum 

fur me ? 
Do de fiel'-lark sing es sweetly frum de shugar- 

maple tree ? 
Will de chilluns cum to meet me, an' my wife, 

dat's dead an' gone, 
Will she sing, jes' lak she useter, in de cotton 

an' de cohn ? 

O, chilluns, I'm cummin', 
Fur de ole man's almos' free, 

An' I'm longin', jes' er longin' 
Fur er sight ob Tennessee. 

O, I'm longin', jes' er longin' fur er breath ob 

Tennessee, 
Fur de wind frum off de mount'in made foreber 

fur de free, 
Fur de lesson an' de blessin' in de blue sky up 

erbove. 
An' de locus'-blossoms bloomin' on de grabes ob 

dem I lub. 
Am de 'possum still house-keepin' 'mong de 

grapes ob Bigby Creek ! 
An' young mistis — do she kerry still de grape- 
bloom in her cheek ? 
Ken you heah de sheep-bell tinkle, tinkle, on de 

blue-grass hill. 
While de water jine de chorus frum de ole 

wheel at de mill ? 
^3 353 



Songs and Stories 

Yes, marster, dat's er fac* you say, 

De ole man he am free — 
But I'd be er slave ergin 

Fur jes' er bref ob Tennessee ! 

O, I'm longin', jes' er longin' fur er home in Ten- 
nessee, 
Fur de cabin dat ole marster built fur Dinah an' 

fur me, 
Whar de chillun cum an' left us lak de dew-drap 

leab de grass — 
All withered up an' yearnin' fur de little things 

dat's pas'. 
I kno' dey dead — but still I feel ef I'd go dar 

onc't mo', 
Mebbe dey'd cum ergin sum day an' play befo' 

de do'. 
Mebbe my mammy'd cum ergin her little boy to 

take 
An' sing fur him dat lullerby from which he'd 

never wake. 

O, mammy, I'm.er cummin^ 
Sabe dat lullerby fur me — 

Fur I'm longin', jes' er longin' 
Fur er grabe in Tennessee. 



354 



from Tennessee 



WONDERFUL MEN. 

(To My Mother.) 

Truly a wonderful man was Caius Julius Csesar. 

— Longfellow. 

TRULY a wonderful man was Caius Julius 
Cassar, 
Strong his will as his sword and both of Damas- 

can mettle, 
Wonderful in his wars, more wonderful yet in his 

writings, 
Firm his words and quick as the tramp of a 

Roman legion. 
Grand his thoughts and high as his standard, the 

Roman eagle. 
Whether 'mid gloomy woods, facing a foe bar- 
baric. 
Seizing a shield and a sword to turn the Nervian 

torrent. 
Or 'mid Thessalonian pi'ains sweeping Pompeian 

forces. 
Or guiding with wisdom's reins the greatest of all 

the nations. 
Always the wonderful man — Caius Julius C^sar. 

And yet, O wonderful man, O wonderful Julius 
C^sar, . 

355 



Songs and Stories 

In all your wonderful works no mention is made 

of your mother, 
In all your wonderful fights, you made no fight 

for woman ! 
And know you, wonderful man, imperious Julius 

C^sar, 
From whom your wonderful nerve and wonder- 
ful heart for battle ? 
'Twas she who flinched not beneath the cruel 

knife of the surgeon, 
Fighting a battle for you, grander than Gaul's or 

Egypt's, 
Bringing you into the world and moulding you in 

her likeness. 
Stamping your soul with fire and stamping your 

mind with greatness. 

And truly a wonderful man was Cicero, the 

orator, 
Pure his words and free and grand as a flowing 

river. 
Lofty his flights and swift as an eagle soaring 

upward. 
Showing to men through the rift the glory and 

beauty above them. 
Clenching the wisdom of years he hurled it with 

might Titanic, 
Yet tender even to tears when a Roman life hung 

on it. 

Musical oft his words, as the march of the planets 

above him, 

356 



from Tennessee 

Now sweet as the Lesbian birds, now stern as 
the shock of battle. 

And yet, O wonderful man, O greatest of ancient 

speakers, 
In all your wonderful works no mention is made 

of your mother. 
Of all your speeches grand, not one was made 

for woman ! 
And yet 'twas she who gave you depth and 

beauty and sweetness. 
The voice to mimic the wave, the brush to paint 

the lily. 
'Twas she who sowed in your soul the seeds of 

fanciful flowers, 
Erected aloft your goal and gave you the strength 

to win it. 

And O, a wonderful man was Horace, the lyric 

poet, 
Studding his sky with stars and decking his earth 

with meadows. 
Singing a song to his love while she blushes 

adown the ages. 
Covering the ruins of Time with the fadeless 

leaf of his laurel — 
Concealing the broken vase with the immortal 

bloom of his roses. 

And yet, O wonderful man, O sweetest of 
ancient poets, 

357 



Songs and Stories from Tennessee • 

Who gave you the hue to paint the carmiel 

cheek of your roses, 
Your lute, that sounds even now, through the 

mellow twilight of ages ; 
Who gave you the pure, true eye for watching 

and loving all nature. 
And tuned your wonderful lyre till old Time 

stops to listen ? 
A wonderful creature was she, — a wonderful, 

wonderful woman — 
And yet, we ne'er had known, had we waited 

your muse to tell it ! 

O these were wonderful men, and wonderful, 

too, their country, 
And yet it has passed away, as a bubble when 

Time blows on it ; 
Passed, as they all have passed, where might is 

greater than Mother, 
Passed, as they all have passed, where wife is 

less than mistress. 
Passed, as they all will pass, who have no throne 

for woman. 



THE END. 



358 



'Jr---- 



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